THE KILLER OF THE DARKNESS

EPISODE THIRTY-EIGHT

THIRTY-EIGHT

Over in seconds, the cold, and the shock, made me shiver. I put my jacket back on. Only then did I stand in front of Mũller and confront him.

       "You planned this all along, didn't you?"

       Grim faced, Mũller nodded.

       "Perhaps, I should have guessed. That suicide jump, and the tense way your men behaved."

       Mũller took out a cigarette and offered one. I shook my head.

       "And what about you?"

       I gazed at Mũller.

       "What about me?"

       "Who are you?"

       "I told you who I am."

       "Yes, you did. Mat Tillerever."

       "And?"

       "It's an anagram of Time Traveller."

       "So, you can do anagrams."

       "Am I right?"

       "Never done it. Now, what is it I need to do for the locals?"

       With his foot Mũller tapped the box left by the Alpenkorps who gave me my injection.

       "This is more of the anti-toxin. Take it back to Onehouse. Make sure everyone receives it."

       "You would do that for us?"

       "Of course."

       Mũller placed a cancer stick between his lips and lit it with an exact movement of arm and lighter. He inhaled, disengaged the ciggy in the same precise way, and blew out the smoke.

       "Our instructions simple. Get in here, recapture the Reichenberg and its pilot, and get out again. But I am not under orders to use a chemical weapon on the British people."

       I snorted.

       "Why didn't you start injecting earlier, in the town? Quite possible, without revealing your identity."

       Mũller, examined the burning end of his flag with intent.

       "You must understand, this particular chemical weapon took a long time to develop. I wanted to be sure a biological incident might occur."

       Suddenly, the meaning behind the words made their appalling impact on me.

       "And now you are certain?"

       Mũller drew again on his coffin nail.

       "No. But I will not take the chance."

       I stared back searching into the German's eyes.

       "Thank you."

       Embarrassed, Mũller turned away.

       "I don't like these things. War should be fought by soldiers."

       A burst of static emanated from the field walkie-talkie set. One of the Alpenkorps manning it entered a message exchange, amplified on its speaker. Mũller checked his watch.

       "We shall be lifted in less than eight minutes."

       He spoke into his own communicator. Almost at once, I could see the effect on the far-flung firefly-like torches. They began to bunch up and grow larger.

       "You have stopped looking for the pilot?"

       Mũller did not answer straight away. He dropped the stub to the ground and stared at the winking spot of red until it disappeared.

       "Time is running out for us. We dare not delay longer."

       Despite my efforts, I cannot hide my distaste.

       "That...that...man killed. When he is caught, he'll have to face trail and without doubt be hanged."

       Mũller remained silent, spellbound by the darkness.

       I tried again.

       "He is nothing but an animal."

       It got through.

       Mũller's head jerked round.

       "Obersturmbannführer Schmidt was a fine officer."

       "Was?"

       A great sadness came over Mũller. His shoulders for the first time drooped, his voice bitter.

       "That is what I said. We attended the same class together at SS-Junkerschulen. Paul was an excellent athlete, well like by his men. Decorated for valour with the Eisernes Kreuz 1. Klasse."

       The Iron Cross, awarded for continuous bravery before the enemy or excellence in commanding troops after being awarded the Iron Cross 2nd class.

       Mũller stared imploringly into my face.

       "A soldier like me. I beg you to remember."

       I thought about the victims.

       "I won't make any promises. But why do you keep referring to him as though he is dead?"

       Mũller turned away, his voice turning hard.

       "Because he is."

       He shrugged and carried on as the relief flooded into my face.

       "Oh, not his body; I mean his mind. It is gone. The thing walking around terrorizing this island is not Paul Schmidt, it is a madman."

       In the ominous silence, a barely audible rumble swelled and died.

       In the heightened reticence, I grappled with the frightening picture Mũller tried to present.

       "I still don't understand. Why is he mad? Has he been always like this or only since the Reichenberg crashed?"

       Again, my questioning seemed to present Mũller with problems in answering. He came to a decision, after some deliberation.

       "I will tell you."

       He walked a few paces and then retraced his steps, stamping his feet to keep them warm.

       "Have you ever driven a car, and it felt like an extension of yourself, as though the brain and the rest of the car seemed connected to your body? That you could feel the strains being imposed upon it, and tingled with the awareness of things near to the outer skin?"

       I nodded.

       "Yes, I suppose so."

       "Well in the Reichenberg that concept is now reality."

       With a rush of revulsion, I started to comprehend, but Mũller carried on as if he now had to unburden the whole thing in detail.

       "When Obersturmbannführer Schmidt volunteered for a new fighting brigade he would not be informed of what would be happening. Even now I have only found out some facts during my briefing for this raid."

       A cold feeling spread down my spine. I steeled myself before I asked the next question.

       "What happened to him?"

       The voice which replied sounded choked with emotion.

       "What they did with him, he could only be complete once he sat in the Reichenberg. When he leaves it, he leaves part of himself behind. I saw other volunteers; there is..."

       He faltered.

       "... there is some sort of panel inset into the bone at the base of the skull."

       I remained horrified, remembering my premonition when I first saw the vessel on the beach.

       "Should you be telling me this?"

       Looking levelly at me, Mũller shook his head as the cacophonous rumble came again, and this time did not die away.

       "No."

       The radio crackled, the voice louder and more imperative. The remaining Alpenkorps shot forward on their skis, moving from amber light to flare as they lit the crescent.

       I nodded at them.

       "No, I should not tell you, but we must pull out, and we have not found Obersturmbannführer Schmidt."

       He spat the next words out.

       "They broke him as a man. For his wife's peace of mind, I ask of you..."

       He hesitated, and I became aware what Mũller intended to say next, would be difficult for him.

       "As one honourable man to another, only one favour in exchange for the anti-toxin."

       I took my revolver from an Alpenkorp, with caution. He moved forward at a hand signal from Mũller.

       "What do you want?"

       Before he replied, Mũller waited for his man to move away. The rumble now grew to a roar, the marking burning as the other flares being extinguished by plunging them into the snow-covered ground. The Alpenkorps began forming into a line. Mũller shouted above the sound as it rose to a crescendo.

       "Kill him."

       He saw the startled expression on my face.

       "Please. For his sake, do not let him be taken."

       A wind forced down on us, blowing the powdered snow in great whirling curtains, the flames leaping and cracking, the Alpenkorps hunched forward, their clothes ripping and tugging. The smell of fuel overpowering.

Suddenly, like some apocalyptical happening, fierce searchlights bathed us in a harsh white light from the sky.

       Mũller seized my hand, holding it in an iron grip.

       "Be merciful. Kill him!"

       He let go, pulled himself and saluted, Nazi style, hand flat, pointing to the heavens.

       Without another word he turned on his heel and ran to his men through the man-made blizzard.

       Down on to the landing zone settled a snow-coloured Focke-Achgelis Fa 223 chopper, the twin-rotor whirling and flashing in the light, the huge swastika on its side still a shock to me.

       The Reichenberg was loaded on, pursued by the men, running forward in a single column, heads reflexly ducked against the still turning blades.

       In less than a minute the copter lifted, apparatus screaming, blades chopping the air, white clouds following it up. It moved away forwards; the searchlights extinguished. As the machine slid away into the night, only the light flashing on the glazed cockpit marked its progress for a moment.

       No sooner had it cleared the area than a second pair of searchlights split the night, coming in behind the first.

       This time I recognized the distinctive shape of an Doblhoff WNF 342. Designed as a single seat aircraft with a tubular steel frame and a fabric sheltered tail section. The fourth prototype added a second seat for an observer in an enclosed cockpit. The engine drove a compressor that fed a fuel-air mixture to the rotor hub, through three hollow blades to tip-mounted jets. A pusher propeller behind the aero motor provided airflow, allowing a large rudder to control the direction of flight.

       It touched down, the restless snow billowing up again as Mũller started forward. He glanced back, just the once, boot resting on the hatch. After a few seconds, he turned, took the reaching hand of the pilot, who pulled him in as the whirlybird lifted away and the lights switched off.

       The noise diminished, the helicopters keeping low and heading fast over the rough water.

       I stood stock still, the silence descending around me until it was deafening. The last aid to navigation spluttered and went out, plunging me into darkness.