Cast No Shadow, Peter Sharp [books to get back into reading txt] 📗

“You with me, Horst?” asked Kelly.

“I’m with you! God help us both.”

They walked into the almost empty stadium where a few couples were visiting, some taking pictures. Kelly had visited on a number of occasions and had never failed to feel the sense of history. There was the podium where Hitler had stood for the salute and sat in fury as Jesse Owens made athletics history on this very track.

On this particular occasion, however, his mind was elsewhere.

The group met with Müller at the large bowl which had housed the flame at the 1936 Olympic Games. The driver and his two henchmen moved off about ten yards and remained in a group. Müller posed at the flame, for all the world a tourist, while Kelly positioned him for the photographs. Manteufel hovered close by.

“One more, Herr Müller. I need a good close up.” Then to Manteufel, “This will be the last shot Horst, then we are done.”

“Good!” Manteufel shrugged and ambled slowly towards the group of bodyguards, his hands in his pockets.

When Kelly felt close enough to Müller, he dropped the camera, grabbed Müller around the neck and hurled him to the floor. He whipped out his pistol and shot into the group, simultaneously screaming to Manteufel. Kelly glimpsed the man he had fired at fall, before his attention was diverted to Müller who was drawing a pistol out from under his coat. Kelly pistol-whipped the German viciously across the mouth then crashed his foot down on the hand containing the pistol, hearing the bones crack. At the same time, he became aware of pistol shots. Looking up he saw Manteufel crouched on one knee, the pistol in both hands the arms outstretched in front, infantry style. The last of the three bodyguards was sinking to the ground.

Then Manteufel was up, bent double as he weaved and skirmished towards the three downed men, his pistol at the ready. There was a crack as a pistol shot signalled the end of one of the wounded bodyguards. Manteufel sauntered over to Kelly, his hands back in his pocket, breathing deeply, but outwardly looking perfectly calm.

This man is a professional, thought Kelly.

Kelly was kneeling on Müller, both of whose arms were forced up his back. The fight had gone out of Müller, he knew it was all up, but Kelly was taking no chances.

“What now?” asked Manteufel.

“Now you slip the pistol into my pocket and then we wait for the military police. You will initially be taken prisoner as well, but you have my word I will have you released.”

“I have your word?” asked Manteufel staring directly into Kelly’s eyes.

“You have my word!” answered Kelly returning the gaze. Manteufel hesitated a moment, then slipped the pistol into Kelly’s pocket, sat down on one of the steps and waited. He didn’t have long to wait before khaki figures wearing red caps were pouring into the stadium, their 9 mm Brownings drawn and cocked.

Kelly raised his eyes in the direction of the last few slices of the Chateaubriand Béarnaise, but Sybilla blew out her cheeks and shook her head. It had been a delicious meal, as always in the Pavilion Du Lac, and there simply wasn’t any room left for dessert.

They liked the pavilion. Being set as it was in the French sector, it made it easier for the two of them to remain reasonably discreet. It was a rare treat for them to meet and dine together. When either one or the other was undercover, they were unable to meet at all and therefore, of necessity, lived in separate flats near the old Spandau machine gun factory.

The factory had now been taken over by the British forces as a repair depot, but a small and private corner of the factory housed the Berlin MI5 HQ.

“Have you managed to engineer Manteufel’s release?” asked Sybilla.

“Not yet,” answered Kelly, pondering whether he really could manage just one more slice of beef. “It will take a bit of doing, but I’ve made the promise so I have to go through with it. He’s been inside for two months, but that’s nothing compared with what he would have received.”

“I imagine the Russians would love to get their hands on him?”

“Oh yes!” said Kelly. “Most definitely. We have had to move his family to a safe house in the British sector. But I think he and his family may eventually need to be transferred to West Germany. It could well be too hot for him here.”

“Do you regret involving him?” asked Sybilla. “It’s given you a lot of additional work.”

Kelly shook his head. “Not in the slightest. I saw an opportunity of getting Müller and I seized it. I couldn’t have done it without Manteufel’s help. If I’d let Müller walk away from the stadium, I might never have seen him again. I think he was getting suspicious over the photo thing.”

“And Müller?”

“In Spandau prison at the moment until the authorities decide what to do with him; my guess is he will be executed,” said Kelly sombrely. Their deliberations were interrupted by the receptionist who advised Kelly that there was an urgent telephone call for him.

Kelly took the call at the reception desk, “Dan? It’s Bob McFarlane. Your HQ told me you’d be there. Get somewhere where you can speak in private, then call me back!”

The phone went dead.

The telephone had barely started ringing when it was picked up. “McFarlane!” snapped the Scots voice on the end of the phone.

“It’s Dan Kelly, Bob.”

“Dan, thanks for being so quick. Where are you?”

“I’m in Billa’s apartment, in Spandau.”

“Dan this is a bloody mess! Müller is out!”

“What!” exclaimed Kelly, anger and frustration clear in his voice.

“Seems he feigned a heart attack and was sprung on his way to the British Military Hospital,” explained McFarlane.

“Manteufel …?” started Kelly.

McFarlane cut him off. “Still in Plotzensee and spitting blood, not to say scared witless. He wants to see you. Says he has something to offer if you