Day of Judgment

are a handful of monks in the old farm at the bottom of the hill by the river.’

‘Good God!’ Van Buren said, genuinely astonished.

‘Franciscans. Berg says they supply the village with milk.’

They were passing along an upper corridor now, the light from the candelabrum in Berg’s hand throwing shadows on the walls.

At the far end, two guards stood outside a door. Süssmann unlocked it. Van Buren said, ‘I’ll see him alone first.’

‘As you wish, Herr Professor.’

Süssmann opened the door for him. Van Buren took the candelabrum from Berg and moved inside.

It was a fairly ornate bedroom with a painted ceiling. Conlin was crouched at the end of the bed, his wrists handcuffed to one of the legs. He glanced up, blinking in the sudden light. Van Buren stood there, the candelabrum held high, looking down at him. He placed it carefully on the floor and

squatted, taking out a cigarette and lighting it.

‘I understand you smoke rather heavily.’

‘It’s been said.’

Van Buren placed the cigarette between the old priest’s lips. ‘Enjoy it while you can. The last for a long time. My name is Harry Van Buren. Does that mean anything to you?’

‘Oh yes,’ the old man said calmly. ‘I think you could say that. Thought reform – an interesting concept.’

‘You know what to expect then.’

‘You’re wasting your time, boy.’ Conlin smiled. ‘I’ve been worked on by experts.’

‘Not really,’ Van Buren said. ‘You only think you have.’ He took the cigarette from Conlin’s mouth, turned to the door and opened it. He handed the candelabrum to Berg and said to Süssmann, ‘We’ll take him below now.’

At the rear of the main staircase in the great hall an oak door gave access to the lower reaches of the Schloss.

As he unlocked it. Berg said. ‘There are three levels, as I explained to you on the telephone, Herr Professor, dating back to the fourteenth century.’

They descended a long flight of stone steps and then a tunnel which sloped into darkness before them. Berg led the way, holding a lantern, and Van Buren and Süssmann followed, Becker bringing up the rear with Conlin between two Vopos.

Berg had to unlock two gates to reach the lowest level. It was very cold now and damp. He paused finally at an iron-bound door and unlocked it. The passageway stretched onwards into darkness.

Van Buren said, ‘Where does that go?’

‘More tunnels, Herr Professor. Dungeons, storage cellars. The place is a rabbit-warren.’

Berg opened the door. Van Buren followed him in and the caretaker held up his lantern. The cell was very old, stone walls smoothed by time, shining with damp. There was no window. The floor was stone-flagged and the only furnishing was an enamel bucket in one corner and an iron cot with no mattress. The

door had a small flap at the bottom for food to be passed through.

‘Is this what the Herr Professor wanted?’

‘Exactly.’ Van Buren turned to Süssmann. ‘Let’s have him inside. No shoes – shirt and pants only and leave the handcuffs on.’

He moved out, ignoring Conlin as Becker and the two guards hustled him in. ‘Nothing to say, Professor?’ the old man called.

‘Why yes, if you like.’ Van Buren turned to face him through the open doorway. ‘Frances Mary. Will that do?’

Conlin’s face sagged, he turned white. Becker and the two guards came out, the sergeant closed the door and locked it.

‘I’ll take the key.’ Van Buren held out his hand for it. ‘And I want a sentry here at all times – understood?’

‘Yes,’ Süssmann said.

‘He stays in here for a week. Total darkness and no communication in any way. One meal a day. Bread and cheese, cold water, passed through the flap at the bottom of the door. Above all, no noise. Better make your sentries wear socks over their boots or something like that.’

‘I’ll see what can be done.’

‘Good. I’m returning to Berlin tonight. If anything comes up, contact Colonel Klein.’

‘And we shall see you again?’

‘Exactly seven days from now. Then we really start to get down to it.’

They moved away along the passage, leaving Becker with one of the guards. The sergeant gave him his instructions, then followed.

Inside the cell, Conlin stood listening, aware only of the muffled sounds of their going. Frances Mary . So long since he had thought of her. And if Van Buren knew about her, what else did he know? His heart raced and the anguish at that moment was physical in its intensity.

He took a deep breath and shuffled cautiously through the darkness until he found the cot, then lay down on it carefully, the springs digging into his back. It was very quiet. Phase One , he thought. Sensory deprivation leading to complete alienation of the subject .

The darkness seemed to move in and complete panic seized him as he remembered Dachau. To be alone, so alone, of course, was the worst thing of all – and then it occurred to him, as it had many times before, that he was not. He closed his eyes, folded his hands, awkwardly because of the handcuffs, and started to pray.

It was just before seven-thirty on the following morning when Brother Konrad and Franz pulled their hand-cart, loaded with milk churns, into the courtyard of the local inn. Berg’s old truck stood beside the front door and the caretaker leaned against it, smoking a pipe and talking to his brother-in-law.

Georg Ehrlich was a small dark man with an expression of settled gravity on his face that never altered. A widower, he left the running of the inn mainly to his daughter, for not only was he mayor, but chairman of the farm co-operative and local Party secretary.

He managed a smile for the Franciscan. ‘Konrad – we don’t often see you.’

‘I wanted a word,’ Konrad said. ‘Official business, and besides – I thought the boy here might like a little help for a change.’

Franz, who at nineteen was the youngest member of the order and built like a young bull, grinned and swung a full milk churn to the ground with ease.

Berg said, ‘I’m going to need at least one of those a day from now on. Put it on the truck for me, Franz, there’s a good lad.’

‘A full churn?’ Konrad said in surprise. ‘What on earth for?’

‘Vopos up at the Schloss. Twenty of the bastards.’

‘Come on in,’ Ehrlich said. ‘Sigrid’s just made fresh coffee.’

They moved along a whitewashed corridor and entered an oak-beamed kitchen. Ehrlich’s daughter Sigrid, a pretty, fair-haired girl of seventeen in a blue dress and white apron, fed logs into the stove. She glanced up and Ehrlich said, ‘Coffee and perhaps a brandy to go with it? A cold morning.’