Brian Lumley - Psychomech 01 - Psychomech

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BRIAN LUMLEY
Psychomech
This one is for Francesco Cova,
Garrison’s Godfather
Prologue
Dark-haired, long-limbed, naked except for a towel wrapped about his middle, Garrison lay sleeping. It had been a
hard day, one of many, and he had been exhausted. A couple of brandies with friends in the camp mess had finished
him, put him down for what he had hoped would be a restful night. But to make absolutely sure he had also taken a hot
shower. Towelling himself dry always wearied him, had a sort of soporific effect which usually blended easily into
deep sleep. Tonight had been no exception, but—
—No sooner had he slept than the dream had been there, that same repetitive dream that had bothered him now for
some three weeks, almost every night, and which he could never bring back to mind in the world of waking reality,
except to say that it was a frightening thing which invariably left him drenched in his own perspiration, and that at its
climax he would leap screaming awake. The dream involved a silver car, a black dog (or rather, a bitch), two men (one
unseen), a beautiful girl (also unseen), a Machine and a man-God, in the reverse order of importance. And Garrison
himself. That much he could always remember quite clearly, but the dream’s finer details were always obscure. Except
for the sure knowledge that it was a nightmare.
Of those details, forgotten in his waking moments:
He rode the Machine.
It was not a motorcycle, not any sort of vehicle one might imagine, but he rode it. He rode through valleys and over
mountains and across oceans, through lands of weird vegetation and weirder, lizard-inhabited rock formations and
over primal seas where Leviathan and all his cousins sported and spouted. Behind him, seated upon her haunches
with one great paw upon his shoulder, the bitch whined and panted and occasionally nuzzled his neck. She was
worried for him. He understood her fear without knowing its source, as is often the way with dreams.
In his mind was the picture of a girl, one he knew intimately even though he had never seen her - which is also the
way of dreams. He wanted to find her, save her, kill her - but he did not know where she was, what he must save her
from (herself?), or why he must kill her. Indeed he prayed that perhaps he might not have to kill her, for he loved her.
Her face haunted him. It was a face he knew and yet had never seen; but if he closed his eyes she was there, misty in
his memory, but with huge dark eyes, small scarlet mouth, flat ears and hair which he painted shiny black without ever
having seen it. Or if he had seen her, then it had been in a dark room, or through curtains as a silhouette. Yes, he
remembered that, the darkness. But his hands knew her!
His fingers remembered her. He had never seen her, but he had touched her. He remembered her body, its feel. His
own body remembered it; and he ached with the thought that others - and one other in particular - also remembered
her. And the ache turned to anger. Feeling his rage, the black bitch howled where she clung to his shoulder.
Garrison rode his Machine harder, towards distant crags where a lone figure stood beside a silver Mercedes
impossibly perched upon a spike of rock. High over a mountain pass, the man and the car. Friends, both of them. The
man was large, squat, naked, crewcut and blond, with small hard eyes. But he was a friend and he beckoned Garrison
on, pointing the way.
The way to the black lake!
Garrison waved and rode the Machine through the pass, and the man and the car faded into distance behind him ...
Beyond the mountains a forest of dead, skeletal trees went down to a shore of pitch washed by a great black oily
lake. And in the middle of the lake a black rock loomed, and built upon it a black castle glittered like faceted coal of jet.
Garrison would have flown straight on across the lake, but here the Machine balked. Something - some invisible
thing - reached out from the black castle and touched the Machine. He could maintain control only if he drew back
from the lake, the castle, the Black Room.
The Black Room!
Somewhere in that castle, a Black Room, and in that room the girl with the face he had never seen. And a man, a tall
slender man with a voice that caressed,lulled,liedand cheated! And it was Ms Power that held off Garrison’s Machine.
But the castle, the room, the girl, all of these things were the things Garrison sought. The end of his quest. For he
suspected that Horror also lurked in the castle, and he had sworn to banish that horror forever. Even if it meant
destroying the girl, the man, the Black Room and the very castle itself!
And yet still he prayed that he might somehow save the girl.
He turned the Machine, sent it rushing back over the roof of the bleached brittle forest, turned it again and hurled it
at the lake. His mind powered the strange Machine, drove it like a bullet from a gun at the rock that loomed and leered
in the oily lake - so that when the Machine came up against the Power from the castle and slammed to a halt, Garrison
and the bitch were almost hurled from its glittering back.
How the Machine fought him then. He knew that it would throw him, trample him, kill him if it could. And it could!
Except—
As the Machine fought to be rid of him, the man-God came. A face in the sky. Bald, domed head; eyes that loomed
bright and huge behind lenses that magnified monstrously; an agonized, pleading voice that cried out to Garrison:
ACCEPT ME, RICHARD! LET ME IN. ACCEPT AND WIN!.
‘No!’ he shook his head, afraid of the man-God no less than of what he might find in the Black Room. He gritted his
teeth and battled with the Machine.
THEN YOU ARE DEAD! the man-God cried. BOTH OF US, DEAD. AND WHAT OF OUR BARGAIN, GARRISON?
DON‘T YOU REMEMBER? YOU CAN WIN, GARRISON, LIVE. WE BOTH CAN. BELIEVE ME, YOU DON‘T WANT
TO DIE. AFTER ALL, I KNOW WHAT IT‘S LIKE HERE.
‘No!’ Garrison screamed.
A cube, small, brown, burning, came hurtling out of the sky from afar. It paused, spinning, between the desperate
face of the man-God over the lake and Garrison where he fought the Machine.
The cube expanded, contracted, glowed hot as the heart of a sun - exploded!
White fire and heat and blast and searing agony—
Garrison’s eyes-
—And coming awake with a strangled scream, to find an autumn sun shining damply through the drizzle on his
windows. And the hands on his alarm clock standing at 6.30 A.M., the calendar telling him it was a Friday in
September, 1972, and the nightmare receding.
He clutched at his mattress, damp with his sweat, licked dry lips and desperately tried to conjure the details of the
dream. For one instant they stood out clearly in his mind and he could feel again the frantic bucking of the Machine,
then swept away, rushing away into distances of mind, they were gone. And only the fading howl of a dog echoed
back to him.
And with that howl ringing in his ears Garrison knew that he had dreamed again of a silver car, a black bitch, two
men, a man-God, a beautiful girl - and a Machine.
And an unknown Horror.
The known horror was waiting for him in the city. Out in the corridor the night-duty Corporal was hammering out his
own hideous version of reveille on an empty fire bucket...
Chapter One
It was Belfast and the year was 1972, a Friday afternoon in late September.
Thomas Schroeder, German industrialist, sat at a small table in a barroom with a sawdust floor. A brass spittoon lay
under the chipped mahogany footrail against the dully stained skirting of the bar. Blinds were drawn at the windows
and a single naked electric light bulb high in the centre of the ceiling burned fitfully, its filament almost spent. Its dull
gleam was twinned in Schroeder’s spectacles.
Beside him, shuffling uncomfortably on a bolted-down wooden bench, sat his friend, his sometime secretary and his
constant companion, Willy Koenig. Opposite them sat two other men whose faces were almost obscured beneath thick
hair and unkempt beards. What little could be seen of their actual faces seemed largely blank, impassive. They had
been speaking to Schroeder, these two Irishmen, in voices which, despite the soft lilt of a naturally roguish brogue,
had been coarse and filled with terrible words.
Koenig’s hands were nervous on the thick black briefcase that lay before him on the wooden table. An ugly tic
jerked the flesh at the corner of his mouth. He sweated profusely, despite the coolness of the room. He had sweated
from the moment he and his master had been met by these two alleged members of the IRA, sweated and crouched
down into himself and made himself small when in reality he was a large man. By comparison, the tallest of the two
seated opposite was only of medium height; but no one watching Koenig sweat and twitch would ever guess his real
stature and massive strength.
Schroeder seemed as nervous as his aide, but he at least was cool and appeared to be keeping a grip on himself.
Small, balding and in his late fifties, he could be said to be a typically dapper German, but leaner and paler than might
be expected. An additional twenty or thirty pounds of flesh and a cigar in the middle of his face might have turned him
into the popular misconception of a successful German businessman, but he neither smoked nor ate to excess.
This was part of a determined effort to live to the fullest extent of his years, of which the best were already flown. He
knew this, - and also that the rest of his time would not be completely satisfactory; therefore it must be as good as he
could make it. Which is one reason why the people he faced should have been more careful. They knew him for what
he was now, not for what he had once been. But then, only Schroeder himself knew that. Schroeder and Willy Koenig.
For if the Germans were really the timid, badly frightened men they appeared to be, why had they come? This was a
question the Irish terrorists had failed to ask themselves, or had not asked searchingly enough. Was it really to save
Schroeder’s wife? She was young and beautiful, true, but he was no longer a young man. Could he really love her?
They should have seen that this was doubtful, these Irishmen. More likely she was a decoration, icing on Schroeder’s
cake. And indeed he had come for a different reason. There are some men you can threaten, and there are others you
must never threaten . . .
Somewhere in a shady corner of the room an old clock ticked the time away monotonously; beyond the locked door,
in a passage with leaded lights of red glass, whose outer door opened on the street, two more men talked in lowered
tones that filtered into the barroom as mere murmurs.,
‘You said you wanted to talk to me,’ said Schroeder. ‘Well, we have talked. You said that my wife would be released,
unharmed, if I came to you without informing the police. I have done all you asked. I came to you, we talked.’
His words were precise, perhaps too precise, and sharp with his German accent. ‘Has my wife been released?’
Their beards were all that the Irishmen shared in common. Where one was dark-skinned, as if he had spent a lot of
time in the sun, the other was pale as a mineshaft cricket. The first was thinner than Schroeder, narrow-hipped,
tight-lipped. The second was small and round and smiled a lot, without sincerity, and his teeth were bad. The thin one
was pimply, scarred with what might be acid bums across his nose and under his eyes. The scars were white against
his tan. He looked into Schroeder’s eyes, his gaze seeming to penetrate right through the thick lenses of the
industrialist’s spectacles. His thin lips opened a fraction.
‘That’s right, Mr Schroeder,’ he softly said. ‘Sure enough it is. Indeed it’s been done. Your dear wife is free. We’re
men of our word, you see? She’s back at your hotel this very minute, safe and sound. We only wanted to see you, talk
to you. Not to harm your pretty Fraulein. Actually, we’d have let her go anyway, for she’s nothing to us. But you must
admit, she made a fair bit of cheese to bait our trap, eh?’
Schroeder said nothing but Koenig sat up straighter, his small eyes staring into the faces before him. ‘Trap? Of what
do you speak?’
‘Just a manner of speaking,’ said the fat man, smiling through his rotten teeth. ‘Now calm down, calm down, Mr
Koehig. Stay cool, like your boss here. If we’d wanted you dead you’d be dead now. And so would the Fraulein.’
‘Frau,’ corrected Koenig. ‘Fraulein means girl. Frau is a wife.’
‘Oh?’ said the fat one. ‘Is that right, now? And that lovely young German slut’s actually married to our Mr
Schroeder, is she? Not just a piece of buck-she cunt?’
Koenig looked as if he might respond but Schroeder silenced him with a glance, then turned his eyes back to the two
terrorists. ‘Men of your word,’ he nodded, blinking rapidly. ‘I see. Men of... of honour. Very well, if that is so will you
let me speak to my wife?’
‘
‘Of course you can speak to her, sir, of course you can,’ the small round one said, grinning. ‘For we are men of our
word, as you’ll see. Sure we are." The grin slipped from his face. ‘A pity the same can’t be said of you!’
‘Herr Schroeder is completely honourable!’ snapped Koenig, his blond eyebrows lowering in a frown, sweat rivering
his red bull neck.
‘Is he now?’ said the thin one, nodding his head for a long time, his eyes unwavering where they stared at Koenig.
‘Well, it appears you’re a very loyal man, Mr Koenig. But do please remember, when we asked him to come alone he
brought you with him - you crew cut Kraut sod!’ Despite the invective, his tone remained dry and constant.
Willy Koenig half-rose, found his elbow locked in the grip of his employer’s hand, sat down again. The sweat
dripped even faster.
Schroeder said: ‘Herr Koenig goes almost everywhere with me. I do not drive. Without him I could not come. Also,
he is my secretary, occasionally my advisor. He advised me to come. That much at least you must thank him for.’
‘Oh?’ said the fat one, smiling again. ‘And can we thank him for the briefcase, too - and what’s in it?’
‘The briefcase? Ah!—’ It was Schroeder’s turn to smile, however nervously. ‘Well, you see, I thought it might be
that you wanted money. In which case—’
‘Ah!’ they said together, their eyes falling on Koenig’s briefcase. After a while they looked up.
‘So it’s full of money, is it?’ said the smiling one. ‘Well, that’s very reassuring. But it’s not just money we’re after.
See, it’s this way. This factory you plan would employ a couple of thousand lads - Protestant lads, that is. It would
create, you know - a sort of imbalance. A lot of money in Protestant pockets. Happiness in their black farting hearts.’
The thin one took it from there: ‘We only want to restore the balance, so to speak. I mean, after all’s said and done, it
is war that we’re talking about, Herr Schroeder. Perhaps that’s what you don’t understand?’
‘War?’ Schroeder repeated. ‘Oh, I understand some things about war. But still I cannot supply you with guns.’
‘So you keep saying,’ the thin one answered, his voice impatient now, the scar tissue on his cheeks and nose
seeming to show that much whiter. ‘But we could work something out. You have armaments interests in Germany. You
could always give a nod in the right direction, or turn a blind eye on certain losses ...’
‘May I phone my wife now?’ Schroeder asked.
The small fat man sighed. ‘Oh, please do, please do.’ He casually waved his hand at an antiquated pay-telephone on
the wall beside the door.
As Schroeder got up and crossed the thinly scattered sawdust floor to the telephone, Koenig gripped the handle of
his briefcase but did not pick it up. He remained seated, holding the briefcase on the table before him, the four stubby
legs of its bottom pointed towards the two terrorists. One of them, the smiling one, turned to watch Schroeder through
droopy eyes. The eyes of the taller, thinner man remained on Koenig, had narrowed slightly and seemed drawn to the
awkward position of the German’s hand where it gripped the handle of the briefcase.
Schroeder put money in the phone, dialled, waited, suddenly sighed a great sigh. His lungs might have been
gathering air for an hour, which they now expelled. His immaculately cut suit seemed to crumple in on him as he uttered
that great exhalation. ‘Urmgard? 1st alles in ordnung?’ he asked, and immediately sighed again. ‘Und Heinrich? Gut!
Nein, alles gents gut bei uns. Jah, bis spater.’ He blew a tiny, almost silent kiss into the telephone, replaced it in its
cradle and turned to face across the room. ‘Willy, horst du?’
Koenig nodded.
‘Men of our word, you see?’ said the thin, scarred terrorist, not taking his eyes from Koenig’s face, which suddenly
had stopped sweating. ‘But you - you slimy Kraut dog! - you and your bloody brief—’ His hand dipped down into his
worn and creased jacket, fastening on something which bulged there.
Koenig turned the briefcase up on its end on the table, lining its bottom up vertically with the thin man’s chest.
‘Stop!' he warned, and the tone of his voice froze the other rigid. The four stubby black legs on the bottom of the case
had added substance to Koenig’s warning, popping open on tiny hinges to show the mouths of rifle barrels, four
gaping, deadly mouths whose short throats disappeared into the body of the case. Those barrels were each at least
15mm in diameter, which might help explain Koenig’s rigid grip on the case’s handle. The recoil would be enormous.
‘Put your gun on the table,’ said Koenig. ‘Now? It was not a command to be denied, not in any way. The thin man
did as instructed. His eyes were wide now, his scars zombie white. ‘Yours also,’ said Koenig, swivelling the case just a
fraction to point it at the fat man. The latter was no longer smiling as he took out his gun and put it down very slowly
and deliberately.
‘Most sensible,’ said Schroeder, quietly coming back across the room. On his way he took out a handkerchief,
stooped, folded the white square of linen over the rim of the spittoon and picked it up. He took up a half-pint glass of
stale Guinness from the bar and poured it into the spittoon.
‘You’ll not get past the boys in the corridor, you know,’ said the thin one harshly. ‘Not this way.’
‘Oh, we will,’ said Koenig. ‘But be sure that if we don’t, you will not be .here to enjoy our predicament.’ He pocketed
the thin man’s gun, tossed the other across the room. Schroeder, carrying the spittoon, caught it in his free right hand.
And now the Irishmen were aware of the metamorphosis taken place in the Germans.
Where they had been timid in their actions, now they were sure. Where they had seemed nervous, they were now
cool as cubes of ice. Koenig’s sweat had dried on him in a matter of moments. His eyes were small, cold and
penetrating as he brushed back his short-cropped hair with a blunt fland. He had seemed to grow by at least four or
five inches. ‘Be very quiet,’ he said, ’and I may let you live. If you are noisy or try to attract attention, then—’ and he
gave an indifferent shrug. ‘One missile from the case would kill an elephant outright. Two for each of you and your
own mothers - if you had mothers - would not know you.’
Schroeder, smiling through his thick lenses, his lips drawn back in the wide grin of a wolf, came up behind the two
and said, ‘Put your hands on the table.’ Then, when they had obeyed: ‘Now put your heads on your hands - and stay
quite still.’ He swirled the contents of the spittoon until they made a slopping sound.
‘Gentlemen,’ he finally continued, ’—and may the good God, who to my eternal damnation surely exists, at least
forgive me for calling you that, if not for my greater crimes - you have made a big mistake. Did you think I would come
into this country, and having come here deliver myself into hands such as yours, without taking the greatest
precaution? Herr Koenig here is that precaution, or a large part of it. His talent lies in thinking bad thoughts. Never
good ones. In this way he has protected me personally for many years, since 1944. He is successful because he thinks
his bad thoughts before others think them.’ He poured the contents of the deep spittoon over their bowed heads.
The small fat man moaned but remained motionless. The thin one cursed and straightened up. Koenig had taken the
man’s weapon back out of his pocket. Now he reached over and jammed its barrel hard against his upper lip below his
scarred nose. He pressed his hand forward and up until the muzzle of the gun rested squarely in the orbit of an
expanded left nostril. The Irishman, because of the bench which pressed against the back of his tegs, could not move.
He put up his hands before him and they were shaking.
Koenig told him, ‘Herr Schroeder ordered you not to move - Paddy.’ His accent was thicker now and full of a sort of
lust. The terrorist believed he knew the sort, and his hands fluttered like trapped birds. He wished he had not called the
Germans names. But then Koenig drew back the gun from his face a little and allowed him to relax. He put down his
hands and started to sit, attempting a tight smile through the slop and stale spittle dripping down his face. Koenig had
expected some sort of bravado, had planned and prepared for it, had thought his bad thoughts. He had decided to kill
this Irishman, if only as a lesson to the other one - and it might as well be now.
He drove the gun forward again, his forearm rigid as a piston. The barrel sheared through lips, teeth and tongue, its
foresight slicing along the roof of the Irishman’s mouth. He gagged, jerked, reared up again, coughed blood, the barrel
still in his mouth. If it had been possible, he would have screamed with the pain.
Koenig withdrew the barrel with a rapid, tearing motion, ripping the man’s mouth. At the same time he released his
briefcase and grabbed his victim’s jacket, then struck him with the gun. Again and again and again. The blows were so
fast and deadly that they seemed physically to slice the air; their whistle and chop could clearly be heard. The "final
blow, delivered while the man was still straining up and away, smashed his Adam’s apple out of position and killed
him. Down he went on to the bench, toppling, his nose torn, his right eye hanging by a thread.
The fat man had seen it all. He had dared to lift his head an inch or two from the table. Now, fainting, he fell back
again into the slops. And all of this occurring so rapidly -and in a sort of vacuum, a well of near-silence - that only the
blows had made noise.
Something of it had been heard, however - heard and misunderstood - and a harsh snigger sounded from the
corridor. Then the low murmurings continued.
Koenig moved from between bench and table, stooped and ripped the dead man’s jacket open. He tore off his shirt
and turned to the fat man, roughly towelling his head and face dry and clean before slapping him awake. When the
man’s eyes opened and his eyeballs rolled back into place Schroeder grabbed his beard and showed him his own gun.
‘You are coming with us,’ the industrialist told him. ‘Oh, and incidentally - you may call me Colonel. Herr Koenig
here was the youngest Feldwebel in my rather special corps. You have seen why he was promoted so very young. If
you should foolishly attempt to raise an alarm, he will kill you -or I will. I’m sure you understand that, don’t you?’
The fat man nodded. He might have been about to smile but at the last moment thought better of it. Instead his lips
trembled like jelly. ‘Control yourself,’ said Schroeder. ‘And act naturally. But please do not smile. Your teeth offend
me. If you do smile I shall have Herr Koenig remove them.’
‘Do you understand?’ Koenig hissed, shoving his square face close and baring his own perfect teeth.
‘Yes! Oh, yes, I surely do!’ the IRA man cringed.
Koenig nodded. He seemed to shrink down into himself, making himself smaller. The effort forced sweat to his brow.
His face began to work again, an insistent tic jerking the corner of his mouth. Schroeder also altered himself, _
becoming weary in a few moments. He allowed his hands to dangle by his sides as he shuffled to the door. The
Irishman followed with Koenig close behind. Schroeder turned the key, stepped into the corridor with the two
following on his heels. Koenig took the key, closed the door and locked it, gave the key to the Irishman who
automatically pocketed it. If anyone should look into that room before those two Krauts were away, then he, Kevin
Connery, was a dead man. And he knew it.
The two men in the corridor tipped their caps respectfully as the three passed them and went out of the second door
into the street. It was evening now and an autumn sun was sinking over the hills. It turned the empty street a rich wine
colour.
Another man, small as a monkey, sat at the wheel of a big Mercedes where it was parked. He toyed with the controls,
making the windows hum up and down, up and down...
‘Tell him to get out,’ Schroeder said as he reached to open a rear door. ‘You get in here, with me.’
Connery jerked his head, indicating that the monkey man should get out of the car. As the little man made to do so,
Schroeder pushed Connery into the back seat and got in after him. He produced Connery’s gun.
Koenig waited until the little man was half out of the car, then grabbed him in one hand and dragged him free. He
spun him round, his feet off the ground, once, twice ... and released him at the two men from the corridor where they
now stood in the open door, their curiosity turning to astonishment. The monkey man smashed into them and all three
were thrown back into the shadows. Then Koenig was in the driver’s seat, gunning the motor, turning a corner on
screaming tyres, accelerating down a deserted street. He spun the wheel, turned another corner. And so they were
away.
‘Well,’ said the Colonel to the Irishman. ‘We made it, you see? Now you will kindly give directions back to our
hotel.’ After a moment he added: ‘Tell me, Irish, what’s your name?’
‘Connery, sir - er, Colonel!’ said the other.
‘Oh?’ the Colonel smiled his thin smile. ‘Like Sean? And is that how you see yourself? Vie null null sieben?’
‘Pardon, sir?’ the IRA man gulped as he felt the pressure of his own gun under his heart He knew the damage it
could do.
‘As 007?’ the Colonel repeated. ‘As Mr James Bond?’
‘Oh, no, sir. Not me. I just do as I’m told, so I do.’
‘But it can be bloody work, eh, James?’
‘It’s Kevin, sir - I mean, Colonel. And actually—’
‘Actually, Kevin, you’re a damned Irish idiot for telling me your name. What if I pass it on to the police?’
‘Oh, they know it well enough already, sir. And anyway, I’ll be glad enough just to step down from this car alive.’
‘A sensible attitude. But you were saying?’
‘Eh? Oh, yes - actually, I’m really a sort of messenger boy. Of the two of us, young Michael is - er, was - the heavy . .
.’ ‘Well, I have my own "heavies", as you see.’
‘I do indeed, sir, Colonel. I do that. But I was only doing what I was told to—’
‘Shut your fat Paddy face and be glad you are alive, Kevin Connery,’ said the Colonel, all banter gone now from his
voice. His face had been growing angry, was now white and quite deadly.
Connery could no longer control his trembling. ‘I—’ he started. And again: ‘I—’ He gulped, his eyes rolling wildly.
‘Oh, I’ll let you live,’ said the Colonel, ’though I admit I’m not such a man of my word - a man of honour - as you.’
His voice was full of scorn. ‘So you’re a messenger, are you? Very well, you can live to deliver my message. You can
tell your superiors they have won. I will not build my factory here. Will that please them?’
‘Oh, that it will, sir. Be sure of it. Er, Colonel.’
‘But tell them it is not because of their threats, no. Not because of any pressures they might apply. You see, Kevin
Connery, I have employed - I still occasionally employ -men who know what terrorism really means. No, you have won
for one reason and one reason only. It is this: I would not employ men who breathe the same air as you, who sprang
from the same soil, who have lived in the same land. Regardless of their religious or political beliefs, I would not give
them work. I would not give them the time of day.’
‘Sir,’ Connery gulped as his own gun stabbed even harder through the fat covering his ribs. ‘Colonel, I—’
Tell your superiors everything I have said,’ Schroeder cut him short. ‘I am leaving Ireland tonight. Any of you who
follow - anyone who attempts revenge on me outside Ireland - will not return to his beloved Emerald Isle. Make sure
you tell them that, too.’
They were now deep into the ’safe’ area of the city, driving slowly along a quiet street. Koenig stopped the car
outside a grocery store. He got out and opened the rear door, dragging Connery out by his hair. The Irishman
squealed like a pig and a few passers-by stared for a moment before hurriedly moving on. Koenig grabbed the fat man
with both hands and whirled him around and around, as he had done with the monkey man. Finally he lifted and
heaved in one movement, releasing the man like a stone from a sling. Connery screamed as he shot headlong through
the grocery store window.
Then, before a crowd could gather - before a single voice could be raised in protest - the bulky man got back into the
Mercedes and drove it away.
They were staying at the Europa Hotel and had been there through a week of negotiations. Negotiations which were
now dead, finished. Urmgard had gone missing just three short hours ago. Then - the telephone call, the threats on her
life, the demands. Her life would not have meant a great deal, but - there are some men you must never threaten. The
Colonel had made certain demands of his own, which had been agreed; he had made one hurried telephone call to
Hamburg; then he and Koenig had gone to meet the men who held his wife.
In their absence Gerda, the nanny, had cared for little Heinrich. She had been told to stay with the boy at the hotel
through every moment that her master was away; and the rest of the world had not suspected anything was amiss.
Then there had been the arranged meeting on a certain, road just outside the Catholic area; the bearded men getting
into the back of the Mercedes and producing their guns; the tortuous route which must surely lose anyone not born
to Belfast itself; and finally the destination, a pub in the Old Park district of the city.
But all of that was over now, finished with. Except—
As Koenig turned the big car into Great Victoria Street, so the Colonel sat up straighter in his back seat. No, it was
not finished with. Just as the terrorists had underestimated him, so had the Colonel underestimated them. They were
not all of the same breed.
Police barriers had been set up, blocking the road and cutting off the hotel. RUC men were everywhere, uniformed,
flak-jacketed, SMGs a’t the ready. Military Policemen and Policewomen searched people on the street, their red hats
like splashes of blood in the thin drizzle which now fell from skies turned suddenly sullen.
Koenig’s window hummed down and he identified himself to an RUC constable at the barrier. Schroeder leaned
forward and said: ‘Was ist passiert? What is it? What’s happened here?’
‘Two men were caught coming out of the hotel, sir. They had guns and shot it out. One’s dead and the other’s
dying. We’re talking to him now.’
‘Do you know who I am?’ Schroeder asked.
‘Oh, yes, sir. That I do.’
‘I have to get through, get my wife and child out of there. They are in danger. That’s who they were after, my wife
and child!’
The constable seemed undecided. Schroeder reached out his hand and gave the man a roll of paper money. ‘Now
really, sir,’ the constable stuttered, ‘I can’t accept—’
‘Then give the money to someone who is not so foolish!’ Koenig snapped the words directly into the constable’s
face. ‘Only let us through!’
The RUC man checked to ensure no one had seen, stepped out of the way, removed the barrier and waved them
through.
Koenig brought the car to a halt at the hotel entrance and the Colonel jumped out. A Military Policeman stood on
the hotel steps with his back to the open doors. Inside, a second Redcap was visible, his narrowed eyes scanning the
crowded lobby and missing nothing. Twenty yards down the road an ambulance wailed to a halt, its blue lights
flashing. A crowd of uniformed RUC men parted and a stretcher was lifted, borne to the rear of the ambulance. The
pavement was red with blood. Farther down the road a blanket had been thrown over a crumpled human figure. One
foot, the shoe loose, protruded. There was blood there, too. A lot of it.
Schroeder and Koenig ran up the hotel steps and were confronted by the MP. He was very young, perhaps twenty,
a Corporal. ‘Sorry, sir,’ he said, his voice sharp but not nervous. ‘They’re checking for bombs. You can’t go in there.’
‘Bombs?’ Schroeder’s voice climbed the scale. ‘Bombs? My child is in there!’ He made no mention of his wife.
‘Don’t worry, sir,’ said the Corporal. ‘They’re starting to evacuate now, and—’
‘You don’t understand,’ said Koenig, stepping forward. ‘This gentleman is Herr Thomas Schroeder. Those bombs, if
there are any, are meant for him - and for his family! And his wife will stay exactly where she is until he goes to collect
her. We have to—’
‘Hold it!’ the Corporal snapped. ‘And don’t try to pressure me, friend. I’m just doing my job. Wait a second.’ He
looked along the street. ‘Sergeant!’ he yelled. ‘Hey, Sarge - give us a second, can you?’
A landrover with Military Police plates and Makralon panels stood parked on the kerb, its blue light soundlessly
whirling. The MP Sergeant crouched at its open door, speaking rapidly into the mouthpiece of a radio-telephone. He
looked up as the Corporal shouted, spotted the group of three, nodded, finished his conversation and hurried over.
‘What’s up?’ he asked, mounting the steps.
‘Sarge, this is Thomas Schroeder,’ said the Corporal. ‘He thinks all this was for him. He has family in there.’
‘Well, we can’t help that, my old son,’ the Sergeant answered. He looked nervous, his finger lay along the
trigger-guard of his SMG. He turned to Schroeder. ‘You see, sir—’
Til see you demoted to Private if you don’t let me through!’ Schroeder snarled. ‘My baby—’ He grabbed at the front
of the Sergeant’s flak-jacket.
‘Sarge,’ said the Corporal, staring hard at his superior. ‘This is the Thomas Schroeder. Look, his wife isn’t going to
make a move until he goes in for her. I mean him, personally. Let me go with him, eh?’
The Sergeant bit his lip. He glanced at Schroeder, Koenig, back at the Corporal. There was sweat on his forehead
under his cap. ‘OK, go get them out - but make it snappy. It’ll be my neck if anything goes wrong! Go on, move it - I’ll
get another man on the door here.’ He put his fingers to his teeth and whistled, and a Military Policewoman came
hurrying from the landrover.
‘Thank you!’ Schroeder gasped. And again: ‘Thank you!’ He turned to Koenig. ‘Willy, you wait here. We’ll send for
the luggage later. It’s not important.’ He ran in through the doors with the Corporal close behind. ‘Corporal,’ he called
back, ’what’s your name?’
‘Garrison, sir.’
‘Garrison? A soldier’s name.’ He was panting, but not from any real exertion. Garrison guessed his talking was to
hide his fear. Fear for his wife and child, not for himself. ‘And your first name?’
‘Richard, sir.’
‘The Lionheart, eh? Well, Richard Garrison, you’re a sharp man and I like you for it.’ He thumbed impatiently for the
lift, then jammed his thumb tight down on the button until the doors hissed open and the cage ejected a crush of
white-faced people. ‘I'll see to it that your commanding officer hears about the help you gave me.’
Thank you, sir, but I’d rather you didn’t. He’d only charge me with endangering my own life, or some such. That’s
what’s bothering the Sarge, see?’
Schroeder’s eyes grew large behind his spectacles. ‘Then they really do suspect a bomb?’
They’re searching the upper and lower floors now, sir. Working towards the middle.’
The middle? My child is on the fifth floor!’
At the fifth they hurried from the lift into a corridor filled with people. A dozen of them immediately crammed
themselves into the lift and its doors slid shut. ‘My rooms are 504 through 508,’ Schroeder said, pushing past hurrying
people. ‘My wife has 506. That’s where she’ll be - with Heinrich.’
In front of them the corridor had almost cleared of people. Only a few remained, all looking startled and asking what
was happening. As they arrived at 506 the door burst open. Two wide-eyed youths, neither one of them more than
eighteen years old, rushed out and collided with the Colonel. He was sent reeling - but not before they had recognized
him.
‘Who—?’ Schroeder gasped, banging into the opposite wall of the corridor.
One of the youths whipped out a gun. The SMG in the Corporal’s hands made a harsh ch-ching sound as Garrison
slammed back the cocking piece, and in the next moment the weapon seemed to burst into a lethal life of its own. It
bellowed a staccato message of death that blew the two youths away from the door of 506 and sent them spinning
along a white wall which turned red where they touched it.
Then they fell, sprawling in the corridor and dying along with the SMG’s booming echoes.
Garrison, down on one knee, had fired upward at them. Those rounds which had gone astray had spent themselves
harmlessly in the ceiling. Cleared as .if by magic, the corridor was almost empty now; only two elderly ladies remained,
clutching at each other as they stumbled along the bloodied wall.
Then Garrison and Schroeder were inside 506, their eyes taking in the scene at a glance.
A toddler in a playsuit was crying, arms reaching, staggering like a mechanical toy across the floor of the room. A
woman, young and beautiful, lay on the bed. She was gagged and bound, her eyes wide and pleading. An older
woman lay stretched out on the floor, obstructing the toddler’s progress. Her bun of dark hair was red with blood, as
was the carpet where she lay. A parcel in the shape of a six-inch cube of brown paper sat on the dresser, emitting acrid
smoke which curled upward in a deadly spiral. The paper of the upper side was turning crisp and black. A tiny flame
appeared, reaching upward through the curling paper.
‘Bomb!’ yelled the Corporal. He grabbed the woman off the bed like a rag doll and tossed her into Schroeder’s arms,
knocking the industrialist back out into the corridor. Then he stepped over the unconscious or dead woman on the
floor and snatched up the screaming child-
‘Mein Kind! Mein Sohn!’ Schroeder was back in the doorway, having dumped his wife in the corridor. He took a
step inside the room.
‘Out!’ Garrison yelled. ‘For Christ’s sake, out!’ He hurled the child across the room into his father’s arms, made to
dive for the door and tripped on the prone body of the nanny. Flying headlong across the room, he passed between
the bomb and the doorway. And even willing himself through the air, as he stretched himself out desperately towards
the corridor, his eyes were on the burning parcel.
For this one had his number on it and he knew it. He knew - somehow knew - that it was going to explode.
Which, at that precise moment, it did.
Chapter Two
When Schroeder regained consciousness he was in a hospital bed, held together and kept alive by an amazing array
of pipes and tubes, wires and stitches, instruments and mechanisms. Koenig was at his bedside. The man was seated,
gauze-masked, his head bowed. Tears fell on to his hands which were crossed in his lap. Tears were not characteristic
of Willy Koenig.
‘Willy,’ said Schroeder, his voice a whisper. ‘Where am I?’ He spoke in German.
Koenig looked up, his mouth opening, a light flickering into life behind the bloodshot orbs of his eyes. ‘Colonel!
Colonel, I—’
‘Wo bin ich?’ Schroeder insisted.
‘Still in Ireland,’ said Koenig. ‘You could not be moved. It has been eight days, almost nine. But now - now you will
recover!’
‘Yes, I will, but—’
‘Yes, Herr Colonel?’
Schroeder tried to smile but managed only a grimace. ‘Willy, we’re alone. Call me Thomas. In fact, from now on you
must always call me Thomas.’
The other nodded his blond head.
‘Willy,’ said Schroederagain, ‘I will recover, yes. But you should know what I know. That bomb finished me. A year,
two if I’m lucky. I feel it.’
Koenig fell to his knees beside the bed. He grasped his Colonel’s hand, kneaded it. Schroeder’s grip was
surprisingly strong. It tightened in a sudden spasm of memory.
‘Willy, the bomb! My child! My Heinrich!’
‘A miracle,’ Koenig quickly told him. ‘Not a scratch. Not a mark.’
‘You wouldn’t lie to me?’
‘Of course not, my Colonel - Thomas. The boy is well. His mother, too.’
‘And .. . Gerda?’
Koenig looked away.
Schroeder closed his eyes for a second. ‘Did she suffer?’
‘No, not at all. The bomb blew out part of the hotel’s outer wall. Gerda went with it. They found ... pieces. Probably a
mercy.’
Schroeder nodded painfully. ‘A lesson,’ he whispered. ‘Never mix business with pleasure. We were to fly from here
straight to Australia. I should not have brought them with me.’
‘But you could not know,’ Koenig told him.
Schroeder frowned, his entire forehead wrinkling. ‘It’s so hard to remember. It happened so fast. There was someone
else, a young man. Tall. A good-looking boy. Ah, yes! A Redcap. A British Military Policeman. What of him?’
‘He lives,’ said Koenig. ‘He is blind. There were lesser injuries - a few, not many - but his eyes are finished.’
Schroeder considered this, managed another nod of his head, then a slow shake. That is very bad,’ he said. ‘He
saved me, my child, my wife. Saved our lives. And he is blind ...’ He lay silently for a moment, then came to a decision.
He gripped Koenig’s hand. ‘Keep tabs on that young man, Willy.’ He paused again. ‘He .. . told me his name . . . but—’
‘Richard Garrison, Thomas.’
‘Yes, that was it. Later, when things are better, then I shall want to know all about him.’
Koenig nodded.
‘Right now I must sleep, Willy,’ Schroeder eventually continued, his voice weakening. ‘But first, there are things . . .’
‘They have been done, Colonel - er, Thomas,’ said Koenig. ‘This is a private place. Nine of our best men are here
from Germany. You are perfectly safe. Urmgard and Heinrich are in Koln. They, too, are protected. As soon as you are
well enough, we fly to Siebert’s sanatorium in the Harz. It will be better for you there.’
‘And my doctors?’ Schroeder’s voice was fading away.
Koenig put his lips to the Colonel’s ear. ‘Their doctors patched you up. Ours were here within hours. They said
your internal injuries would have killed any other. Blast is a funny business. It crushed your insides. But it didn’t kill
you. Not you, Heir Colonel, not you.’
Schroeder’s eyes were closed. He was drifting away. ‘Garrison,’ his whisper was a mere breath. ‘Do not forget...
Richard . .. Garrison . ..’
‘I won’t,’ Koenig whispered. He placed his master’s hand on the bed, released it gently and stood up.
Major John Marchant and Corporal Richard Allan Garrison, both of them immaculate in number two dress uniforms,
were met at the airport in Hannover as promised. In fact their reception was better than any promise might have
foretold. Certainly better than the Major would or could have expected. Mere Majors were not used to metallic silver
Mercedes motorcars awaiting their arrival on the landing strips of large international airports. Nor were they
accustomed to the ease - the complete waiver of all normal disembarking procedures, including customs - with which
certain persons of more influential orbits come and go in the world of affairs, and which they occasionally employ to
make the passage of others easier. Quite simply, Marchant and his blind charge were picked up, driven out of the
airport and into the city, and all with never so much as a glimpse of the interior of an airport building.
Richard Garrison on the other hand was not surprised, and not especially interested. There were a good many other
things he should be doing and this to him was all a great waste of time and money. He could understand this man
Schroeder’s gratitude, could see how ill at ease the industrialist might feel at his disablement, but what could the man
possibly hope to do for him? Did he intend to offer him money? Garrison’s pension (the thought brought a wry smile
to his lips: ’pension’, hah! - to be pensioned off at his age!) and compensation would make him relatively independent.
Financially at least. And then there would be supplementary grants from at least three Army funds. No, money would
not be a major problem.
Getting to grips with his blindness, however . . . now that would be quite another matter. And he did not want to be
-would not allow himself to become - a burden to anyone. People had their own problems and solved them as best they
might. Garrison had long ago decided that he must solve his own. So what exactly did this Thomas Schroeder hope to
do for him?
‘Possibly,’ the Major had hazarded aboard the plane, ’he wishes to thank you personally, and in some more or less
concrete manner. I believe he’s a rich man. Now I understand you’re well satisfied with what you’ve already got out of
all .this,’ (he had silently cursed himself for an unfortunate choice of words) ’but in the event he should offer you
money, it would certainly not be in your best interests to refuse him.’
‘It would make more sense and be a better deal if he offered me a job,’ Garrison had answered. ‘One I can handle
without eyes.’
‘You’re a strange man,’ the Major had commented, frowning. ‘You hardly seem to miss your sight. I mean—’ He
paused.
‘I know what you mean.’
‘I don’t think you do. I meant simply that I know a lot of much harder men who would have broken up - or broken
down - if they’d suffered your loss.’
‘How do you know they’re harder?’ Garrison had asked. ‘And do you mean hard or hardened? Let me tell you what
hard is. Hard is being seven years old and seeing your Mam and Dad falling out of love. It’s being brought up by an
uncle who strangles your kitten as a punishment for shitting yourself with diarrhoea when you get caught short. It’s
being fifteen and mad in love for the first time, and finding your girl on the beach with a friend who happens to be
screwing her arse off. And it’s a hell of a lot of other things in between. These are the things I call, or used to call,
hard: things that happen to you when you’re not really to blame. Things that hit you out of the blue, when you’re least
expecting them and can’t fight them. And each bit of hard adds a thin layer to your skin, until you’ve a hide like an
elephant.’
‘Your life?’ the Major had asked.
‘Some of it,’ a curt nod. ‘There were other things, as I’ve said, but I’ve killed off the memories. Do you understand
that? In my mind, I’ve killed them off. There’s nothing bitter in there any more.’ He had shrugged. ‘Once you know
how to do it it’s easy. This blindness is something I’ll kill off too. Hell, this has nothing to do with being hard! I knew
what I was doing when I joined the Army, and when I volunteered for NI. And when I took Schroeder into the Europa,
I... I somehow knew - I mean, I really—’
‘But—’ Marchant had started to speak when Garrison faltered.
‘Look,’ the Corporal had turned on him then, his face dead white around and behind his dark glasses. ‘The only
difference between you and me is that you can see. I have to learn to "see" all over again, and without the benefit of
eyes. But I’ll tell you this: when I can see again, I’ll see a damn sight straighter than you. For one thing, I won’t have
the problem of peering round a big fat stiff upper lip!’
‘Sir!’ Major Marchant had snapped, and immediately wished he could bite his tongue off. He had only recently
achieved his majority and enjoyed being called sir. He had been "sir" as a Captain, of course, but somehow it hadn’t
meant so much. Now, this Corporal - this blind Corporal whose confidential reports had never failed to note the chip
on his shoulder, or rather the absence of chinks in his armour - seemed to be trying to make a mockery of the whole
thing. The man was an opportunist, without doubt, and he certainly intended making gain out of his disability. His
insubordinate attitude was sufficient proof of that. Very well, fair enough to play the game for monetary gain; but to
take advantage of a senior officer’s natural compassion—
‘Sir?’ Garrison had slowly answered. ‘Listen, sir. In a couple of weeks’ time the Army is going to boot me out.
Pension me off. Send me a card every Christmas and a copy of the Corps Journal four times a year. Hey! And you
know something, they’ll really do that! Some idiot will send Journals - and me blind’ as a bat! And you want me to call
you sir? Now? What’ll you do if I refuse? Court martial me?’
After which they had sat in silence. The journey had not been a pleasant one.
Similarly irritating for Major Marchant was the way in which Garrison accepted the idea of a silver Mercedes waiting
alongside the runway as the big jet trundled to a halt. He hadn’t even smiled at Marchant’s exclamation when he and
the Major were called forward, first to disembark. Then there had been the curt, typically German handshakes at the
foot of the travelling ramp, and Marchant shown into the rear of the car while the uniformed chauffeur took Garrison’s
white stick and assisted him into the front passenger’s seat. But then again, it was Garrison this mysterious German
industrialist wanted to see. Major Marchant could not then have realized, however, the very small part he himself was
to play in the rest of the thing.
He was soon to discover his own insignificance, though; for as the great silent silver Mercedes drove out of the
airport and into Hannover itself Koenig half-turned and said: ‘Excuse me, Herr Major, but at which hotel have you
arranged accommodation?’
‘Hotel?’ Marchant raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m afraid you’re mistaken, Herr, er, Koenig? We are to stay as the guests of
Thomas Schroeder, at his estate in the Harz.’
‘Ah, no, Herr Major. It is you who are mistaken. The Corporal is to stay there. No such arrangements have been
made for you. A message was sent, but obviously too late.’
‘But, I—’
‘The Colonel’ has instructed me that in this case I am to take you to the Hotel International in Hannover. You shall
stay there at no expense to yourself. Whatever you need, take it. If you wish for something, ask for it. If they haven’t
got it, demand it and it will be provided. Enjoy your stay. The Colonel owns the Hotel International, of course.’
‘But—’
It was the Major’s day for buts.
‘Your luggage will arrive at the hotel only a little while after you yourself. I hope all will be to your satisfaction.’
Koenig smiled pleasantly over his shoulder.
In the back of the car Marchant sputtered, finally burst out: ‘The Provost Marshal himself has ordered me to
accompany Corporal Garrison and attend to his best interests. I cannot see how—’
‘His best interests are being attended to, I assure you,’ Koenig answered.
‘You assure me? But you are your master’s chauffeur, and—’
‘And he has instructed me to speak for him,’ Koenig smiled again. ‘Anyway, the Colonel has already spoken to your
Provost Marshal. Less than an hour ago they talked on the telephone.’
They did? A Colonel, you say? But what has this Colonel to do with Mr Schroeder?’
‘Why, they are one and the same!’ said Koenig. ‘I thought you knew. Perhaps you weren’t briefed too well.’
‘Oh,’ said Marchant, and he sank back into the deep luxury of his seat. His voice was much calmer now. ‘Yes, you’re
quite right. I don’t appear to have been briefed too well. So Herr Schroeder was a Colonel, was he?’
‘Was?’ Koenig turned, unsmiling, to stare at him. His eyes had turned cold and beady. ‘Oh, but he still is, Herr
Major. To some of us, he always will be ...’
After dropping off the Major they stopped again on the autobahn near Hildesheim, where Koenig said: ‘I can see
you do not like that white stick. Very well, leave it in the car. Here, let me take your arm.’ He guided Garrison into a
restaurant and to the door marked ‘Herren’, and while the Corporal answered the call of nature he ordered drinks and
Zigeuner-schnitzel.
When Garrison left the toilet Koenig was at the door to meet him. ‘Was it difficult?’ he asked.
‘What, taking a leak?’
‘No,’ the German grinned. ‘Finding your way out of the toilet.’
Garrison shrugged. ‘Not really.’ He sensed the other’s nod of approval.
‘Gut!’ Koenig took his elbow. ‘The Colonel was right, you see? He said these so-called aids - these white sticks and
armbands - were merely embarrassments. How do you say it? - "encumbrances"!’
He led Garrison to a table and guided him into a chair. ‘What kind of a man is your Colonel?’ the Corporal asked
when he was comfortable.
‘But you met him.’
‘Too briefly, I’m afraid. And the circumstances were—’ Garrison pulled a wry face, ’—difficult.’
‘Ah, yes, of course,’ said Koenig.
Garrison nodded. ‘The events of that day are still a little blurred. Fuzzy in my mind. I suppose they always will be.’
‘I understand,’ said Koenig. ‘Well, the Colonel is a man to be respected. People who do not know him - complete
strangers - when they meet him, obey him. He has a power, a strength. He was a marvellous officer. And he is a
marvellous man. No, that is not quite true. According to the letter of the law, he is probably a very bad man. For one
thing, he pays not taxes. Or only as much as he wishes to pay. He does not take kindly, you see, to the laws and rules
of others.’
Garrison laughed. ‘I like him already.’
Koenig also laughed. ‘Oh, you will like him. I believe you are much alike.’
‘What does he do?’ Garrison asked. ‘I mean, I know he’s an industrialist, but—’ He paused, listened to the chink of
glasses as the Kellnerin delivered their drinks. After she had gone away he leaned across and whispered: ‘She’s
pretty, she’s young, and she smiles a lot.’
‘How do you know?’ Koenig whispered back.
‘Only a young, smiling sort of girl could wear that perfume,’ Garrison answered. ‘Also, her thigh where it pressed
against mine was very firm - and very friendly!’
The German laughed and nodded. ‘Again the Colonel is right. He says: "Blindness is only a word for having no
eyesight." And he also says it is too often used as a synonym of idiot or cretin or vegetable. Well, you may be blind,
Corporal Garrison, but you are no vegetable!’
‘You must call me Richard, Willy,’ Garrison laughed out loud.
‘No,’ the German shook his blond head. ‘That would not be right. I am after all merely a gentleman’s gentleman. It
would be to demean you. Nor must I call you Corporal, for that also is to belittle you. You see, I was a Feldwebel! No, I
shall call you sir - when others are listening, anyway.’
Garrison sighed and shook his head in mock despair. ‘Jesus,’ he said, ’no more of that shit! I had all that once today
with Marchant.’
‘Ah?’ Koenig’s eyebrows went up. ‘Yes, I suspected something. Weil, the Colonel is not like that.’
‘You were telling me about him/ Garrison prompted.
Koenig nodded, just as he would if Garrison had sight. ‘I do not think he would mind our discussing him. He was a
Colonel at the end of the war. So many young officers were. I was his youngest non-commissioned officer, his batman
if you like, though in fact I was more his bodyguard. We were members of—’ he paused. ‘The SS.’
‘Remarkable!’ said Koenig. ‘Yes, the SS. Does that strike terror into your heart?’
‘No, should it?
‘Many people are still foolish about it - especially Germans!’
‘Well, I’m a Military Policeman - for a week or two more, anyway. And I’ve read a great deal about the SS. There
were good and bad. There are in all armies, all corps and regiments.’
Koenig grinned, his amusement finding its way into his voice. ‘The Royal Military Police and the SS are two very
different concepts, I assure you!’ he said, his words slow and precise.
‘Oh, I know that,’ Garrison answered. ‘But I’ve a feeling that you and the Colonel... well, that you weren’t all
jackboots and Mausers.’
‘We were excellent soldiers, certainly,’ Koenig answered. ‘As to whether we were good or bad men, would it sound
too - how do you say, trite? - to say that we, the Colonel and I, did not relish our duties? Yet it is true. Fortunately
Colonel Schroeder’s was an active command. In fact we were permanently in action, on one front or another. It was his
punishment, I suppose. You see, he came of very bad stock.’
Garrison’s face took on a puzzled look. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘In the First World War his grandfather was General Count Max von Zundenberg. And his grandmother was
Jewish!’
Garrison grinned again and tasted his drink. ‘That might account for his tax-dodging, eh?’ Then the grin slipped
from his face. He sipped again at his drink. ‘That’s a very poor brandy,’ he said.
摘要：

BRIANLUMLEYPsychomechThisoneisforFrancescoCova,Garrison’sGodfatherPrologueDark-haired,long-limbed,nakedexceptforatowelwrappedabouthismiddle,Garrisonlaysleeping.Ithadbeenahardday,oneofmany,andhehadbeenexhausted.Acoupleofbrandieswithfriendsinthecampmesshadfinishedhim,puthimdownforwhathehadhopedwouldbe...

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