The Valhalla Exchange

‘Listen to that,’ Bormann said. ‘Closer by the hour. Do you ever wonder what comes after?’

‘Reichsleiter?’ Rattenhuber looked faintly alarmed.

‘One has plans, of course, but sometimes things go wrong, Willi. Some unexpected snag that turns the whole thing on its head. In such an eventuality, one needs what I believe the Americans term an “ace-in-the-hole”.’

‘The prominenti, Reichsleiter? But are they important enough?’

‘Who knows, Willi? Excellent bargaining counters in an emergency, no more than that. Madame Chevalier and Gaillard are almost national institutions and Madame de Beauville’s connections embrace some of the most influential families in France. The English love a lord at the best of times, doubly so when he’s related to the King himself.’

‘And Canning?’

‘The Americans are notoriously sentimental about their heroes.’

He sat there, staring into space for a moment.

‘So what do we do with them?’ Rattenhuber said. ‘What does the Reichsleiter have in mind?’

‘Oh, I’ll think of something, Willi,’ Bormann smiled. ‘I think you may depend on it.’

4 (#uf8ee78d0-58a9-5ae4-8993-7620fb9e51ca)

And at Schloss Arlberg on the River Inn, 450 miles south from Berlin and fifty-five miles north-west of Innsbruck, Lieutenant-Colonel Justin Birr, 15th Earl of Dundrum, leaned from the narrow window at the top of the north tower and peered down into the darkness of the garden, eighty feet below.

He could feel the plaited rope stir beneath his hands, and behind him in the gloom Paul Gaillard said, ‘Is he there?’

‘No, not yet.’ A moment later the rope slackened, there was a sudden flash of light below, then darkness again. ‘That’s it,’ Birr said. ‘Now me, if I can get through this damned window. Hamilton certainly can pick them.’

He stood on a stool, turned to support himself on Gaillard’s shoulders and eased his legs into space. He stayed there for a moment, hands on the rope. ‘Sure you won’t change your mind, Paul?’

‘My dear Justin, I wouldn’t get halfway down before my arms gave out.’

‘All right,’ Birr said. ‘You know what to do. When I get down, or perhaps I should say if I do, we’ll give you a flash. You haul the rope up, stick it in that cubbyhole under the floorboards then get to hell out of it.’

‘You may rely on me.’

‘I know. Give my regards to the ladies.’

‘Bon chance, my friend.’

Birr let himself slide and was suddenly alone in the darkness, swaying slightly in the wind, his hands slipping from knot to knot. Home-made rope and eighty feet to the garden. I must be mad.

It was raining slightly, not a single star to be seen anywhere and already his arms were beginning to ache. He let himself slide faster, his feet banging against the wall, scratching his knuckles, at one point twirling round madly in circles. Quite suddenly, the rope parted.

My God, that’s it! he thought, clamping his jaws together in the moment of death to stop himself from crying out, then hit the ground after falling no more than ten feet and rolled over in wet grass, winded.

There was a hand at his elbow, helping him to his feet. ‘You all right?’ Canning said.

‘I think so.’ Birr flexed his arms. ‘A damn close thing, Hamilton, but then it usually is when you’re around.’

‘We aim to please.’ Canning flashed his torch upwards briefly. ‘Okay, let’s get moving. The entrance to the sewer I told you about is in the lily pond on the lower terrace.’

They moved down through the darkness cautiously, negotiated a flight of steps and skirted the fountain at the bottom. The ornamental lily pond was on the other side of a short stretch of lawn. There was a wall at the rear of it, water gushing from the mouth of a bronze lion’s head, rattling into the pool below. Birr had seen it often enough on exercise. ‘Okay, here we go.’

Canning sat down and lowered himself into the water, kneedeep. He waded forward, Birr followed him and found the American crouched beside the lion’s head in the darkness.

‘You can feel the grille here, half under the water,’ Canning whispered. ‘If we can get that off we’re straight into the main drainage system. One tunnel after the other all the way down to the river.’

‘And if not?’ Birr inquired.

‘Short rations again and a stone cell, but that, as they say, is problematical. Right now we’ve got about ten minutes before Schneider and that damned Alsatian of his come by on garden patrol.’

He produced a short length of steel bar from his pocket, inserted it in one side of the bronze grille and levered. There was an audible crack, the metal, corroded by the years, snapping instantly. He pulled hard and the entire grille came away in his hands.

‘You see how it is, Justin. All you have to do is live right. After you.’

Birr crouched down on his hands and knees in the water and switching on his torch crawled through into a narrow brick tunnel. Canning moved in behind him, pulling the grille back into place.

‘Don’t you think you’re getting a little old for Boy Scouts, Hamilton?’ Birr whispered over his shoulder.

‘Shut up and get moving,’ Canning told him. ‘If we can reach the river and find a boat by midnight, we’ll have six or seven hours to play with before they find we’re gone.’

Birr moved on, crawling on hands and knees through a couple of feet of water, the torch in his teeth. He emerged after a few yards into a tunnel that was a good five feet in diameter so that he could actually walk if he crouched a little.

The water was only about a foot deep here, for the tunnel sloped downwards steeply, and the smell was not unpleasant, like old leaves and autumn on the river in a punt.

‘Keep going,’ Canning said. ‘From what I found out from that gardener, we emerge into the main sewer pretty quickly. From there, it’s a straight run down to the Inn.’

‘I can smell it already,’ Birr told him.

A few minutes later the tunnel did indeed empty into the main sewer in a miniature waterfall. Birr flashed his torch at the brown foam-flecked waters which rushed by several feet below.

‘My God, just smell it, Hamilton. This really is beyond a joke.’

‘Oh, get in there, for Christ’s sake.’ Canning gave him a shove and Birr dropped down, losing his balance and disappeared beneath the surface. He was on his feet in an instant and stood there cursing, still clutching his torch. ‘It’s liquid shit, Hamilton. Liquid shit.’

‘You can have a wash when we get to the river,’ Canning said and he lowered himself down to join him. ‘Now let’s make time.’

He started down the tunnel, torch extended before him, and Birr followed for perhaps sixty or seventy yards and then the tunnel petered out in a blank wall.

‘That’s it then,’ Birr said. ‘And a bloody good job too as far as I’m concerned. We’ll have to go back.’

‘Not on your sweet life. The water’s got to go somewhere.’ Canning slipped his torch into his pocket, took a deep breath and crouched. He surfaced at once. ‘As I thought. The tunnel continues on a lower level. I’m going through.’

Birr said, ‘And what if it’s twenty or thirty yards long, you idiot – or longer? You’ll not have time to turn and come back. You’ll drown.’

‘So I’ll take that chance, Justin.’ Canning was tying one end of the rope about his waist now. ‘I want out – you understand? I’ve no intention of sitting on my ass up there in the castle waiting for the Reichsführer’s hired assassins to come and finish me off.’ He held out the other end of the rope. ‘Fasten that round your waist if you want to come too. If I get through, I’ll give it a pull.’

‘And if not?’