The Invasion of 1950

Chapter Forty-Nine

London, England

Why had Roger Hollis committed suicide?

The question nagged at Alex DeRiemer as he sat in his office, trying to think; his instincts, which he had learned to trust, told him that it was important. Hollis had been one of MI5’s most promising young officers, someone who might have risen right to the top, and yet he had killed himself. DeRiemer wondered, reading the official report, if it had really been a murder, perhaps even the work of Skorzeny himself, but he could find no flaws in the report. Hollis had taken a pistol, one of the ones signed out to MI5 personnel in fears that the Germans would try to storm the building, and blown off his own head.

Why?

The files were in front of him, but there was little to suggest any reason for despair. Hollis hadn’t been married, nor did he have any relationships that might have caused him to be despondent, and while there were a handful of negative comments in his file, there were no real black marks. He’d been accused of showing a lack of enthusiasm for chasing a particular report of a German spy at one point, but it turned out that the man had been innocent all along, clearing Hollis of any real charges that might have been brought against him… and his future had looked rosy. It had also come to a sharp end when he’d placed the gun against the side of his head and fired.

“It makes no sense,” DeRiemer said to himself. He’d spoken to a few of Hollis’s colleges — he hadn’t had any real friends — and they said that he’d been more subdued than usual, but Hollis had hardly been Churchill or Monty when it came to flashy behaviour. If there had been something wrong with him, it remained impossible to see, but Alex was sure that he was right on the brink of understanding…

He looked back at the dates and froze. Hollis had killed himself the day that his department had been asked to look for a possible German spy within the establishment. His department hadn’t been directly involved in the first investigation and hadn’t been officially informed — and, in theory, he should have known nothing about it — until the investigation had cleared Hollis and he’d been brought into the matter. As the man responsible for securing British seaports and trade from German or Russian infiltration, Hollis’s help would have been invaluable… but he’d killed himself instead.

He killed himself when he learnt that there was a German spy somewhere in the establishment, DeRiemer thought, then experienced a blinding flash of inspiration. What if… Hollis himself had been the spy? Had he killed himself when he thought the investigation was getting too close to him? Was that even possible? Hollis’s records showed that he had been an ardent anti-German and anti-Communist. Had that been a cover? The theory slipped slightly the more he thought about it. Hollis, in such a position, would have been far too valuable to be risked on basic spying. He might have been the Director of MI5 within a few years.

He tested the theory time and time again in his mind. Hollis had been working for the Germans, doing… what? Logically, he would have been employed to ensure that other German spies were covered or passed over by MI5’s investigators, something that he would have been ideally placed to organise. In his position, he could also have made sure the Germans knew exactly what they would face at Felixstowe; he might even have designed the procedures that had allowed the Germans to sail the Hans Bader into the harbour without anything more than a cursory investigation. That would have been enough to cause anyone to be suicidal, but even so, was it enough to cause Hollis to kill himself? He must have known what he was doing… hadn’t he? Even if he hadn’t known, how had he missed it when the Germans actually landed?

There was a knock at the door.

“Come in,” he called. His assistant stepped in. “Yes, Sarah, what is it?”

Sarah smiled. “The Prime Minister is requesting your presence ten minutes ago,” she said wryly.

“I’m on my way,” he said. Churchill was scheduled to address a gathering of Londoners and Civil Dignitaries in the heart of London, one of the most secure gatherings in the world… which wasn’t that secure. Churchill’s bodyguards, some of David Stirling’s men, had tried to talk Churchill out of going, knowing that in a crowd, it would be very difficult to prevent anyone from getting close enough to take a pot-shot at Churchill. “Why does he want me there?”

Sarah’s grin grew wider.

“Because he has a habit of gathering the best and the brightest around him,” she said, knowing that DeRiemer’s rise meant that her position would rise as well. “You’re the one who predicted trouble, so you’re the one who gets the credit and… well, he’ll treat you as a good luck charm.”

“You’ve been listening to the other secretaries again,” he said. He knew little about the world of the personal assistants. “As long as he wants me…”

Skorzeny’s lips twitched as he examined the British lorry. There was nothing much to be said for it, not compared to a panzer or even a standard Speer Lorry that the Speer machine had been grinding out for the German Army. It was nicely anonymous, impossible to tell apart from the hundreds of others that were running through London, and easy to drive. The British had some strange habits when it came to driving, but with Canadians and Australians — and even a handful of Americans — in London, no one would notice the group of British servicemen driving one lorry and looking very urgent. They would get in, carry out their mission, and escape in all the confusion.

Philby’s face looked resigned as Skorzeny climbed out of the truck. Like it or not, they were all committed now; Philby’s involvement would be easy to deduce when he failed to return to his office. He had been granted permission, along with a few dozen others, to attend Churchill’s speech; Skorzeny hadn’t hesitated to use it as an opportunity to take a clear shot at Churchill. Everything would depend on getting the timing exactly right.

“Good,” Skorzeny said. They’d parked the vehicle where it should draw no notice, but they couldn’t stay too long, just in case. “Are you sure that these papers will allow us entry into the secured zone?”

“Yes,” Philby said confidently. His voice weakened. “Are you sure that you can get us out of there afterwards?”

Skorzeny slapped him on the back.

“Don’t be such a coward,” he said cheerfully. “I have been through hundreds of occasions when important people have been assassinated and believe me, the confusion is terrible. We get in, take the shot, and get out again, OK?”

“I suppose,” Philby said. “The papers are set out for a Canadian unit, so you won’t be expected to do anything, but get lost in London. If they order you out, then… well, you can just obey them and then get lost again…”

“But that’s not going to happen,” Skorzeny said in flawless English. “Are you ready for your part of the arrangement?”

“Yes,” Philby said. “I’ll move now…”

“Yes,” Skorzeny mimicked and moved forward as Philby turned his back. The communist wasn’t a strong man and was taken completely by surprise. Skorzeny grabbed the back of Philby’s neck with one hand and drew a slash across his throat with the other. The spy gasped and tried to say something as his life bubbled away. Skorzeny watched dispassionately as Philby fell to the ground, dead.

“Idiot,” he commented and carefully hid Philby’s body in the garage. It would take days for it to be found, but by then, Skorzeny intended to be out of the country. Philby had outlived his usefulness, now that his protector was dead; the shock of discovering who he had worked for had clearly unhinged Roger Hollis. “Are you ready?”

“Yes, Otto,” one of his men said. They all wore British uniforms; they would pass undetected, at least until it was too late. “We’re ready.”

They drove the lorry out of the garage and onto the street. As Philby had promised, the roads were heaving with military traffic, with hundreds of vehicles and thousands of marching soldiers buzzing around, moving through London before they went up to the front-line

It was just the same in Berlin, Skorzeny knew, although his own unit had never been allowed a parade through Berlin. That was a honour reserved for the more public units… and Himmler was determined to keep as much about his unit as possible a secret.

It seemed a waste of time now, as he’d lost too many men in London, but maybe some of them had made it out to join the unit he knew would be reforming in the east. His driver kept them moving directly towards Churchill’s location; the British Prime Minister, according to Philby, intended to bore the socks off everyone in London by making a public speech.

“That’s our turning,” he muttered, and the driver obediently turned the lorry, heading right towards Churchill’s stand. He was a little surprised that the road wasn’t permanently blocked — he’d seen some of the defences in the London suburbs and had been amused at the thought of how determined the British were to defend their capital city — but as a group of soldiers appeared at the far end, he nodded in understanding; Churchill’s own vehicle would probably have to pass out this way. “Show them our papers…”

The driver passed the British officer his papers, and there was a long pregnant pause. “These papers are out of date,” the officer said, one hand falling to the holster he wore at his belt. “I am afraid that I am going to have to ask you to come with me and…”

Skorzeny drew his own pistol in one quick motion and shot the officer, his men spilling out of the lorry like the professionals they were and attacking the British soldiers. Caught by surprise, the unit was quickly wiped out, but Skorzeny knew that the shots would have been heard; the entire British Army would be after them within moments. Philby had either been wrong or had betrayed them and planned to vanish rather than meet at the rendezvous point, but it didn’t matter. The mission had suddenly become a suicide mission.

“This way,” he barked laughing aloud. He was older than most of his men and saw little good in growing even more so until he died in a training accident or even old age. He would close his arms around Churchill’s fat neck and wring it, no matter what the British did, and they would die together. “Heil Hitler!”

Alex DeRiemer heard the shooting as he sat behind Churchill, trying not to show his boredom or his worries. Churchill was a good speaker and knew how to work a crowd, but there was so much work to be done that it was all he could do to remain quiet, let alone stay seated when he could have slipped off back to the office. Churchill had requested him specifically, and it was something that could boost his career forward, but even so, it was a waste of time. He had been amusing himself by counting the soldiers and Very Important People at the gathering when the shooting started and he was sure exactly who was behind it.

Skorzeny, he thought, reaching for the pistol he wore at his belt. It had been too long since he had fired a shot on the training range, something that was a requirement for any MI6 officer who might have to go into German-held territory, and he was far too aware that Skorzeny would probably eat him for breakfast. Churchill’s bodyguards came forward, while Churchill himself, personally fearless, stared in the direction of the shots… as an explosion blasted away a chunk of the wall.

“Get down,” one of the bodyguards shouted and lunged at Churchill, knocking him to the ground. A group of British soldiers appeared… and opened fire on Churchill. They took fire themselves from a dozen different directions at once, but the first British shots were confused. The antagonists fired back with abandon, forcing everyone to keep their heads down. DeRiemer found himself on the ground without any clear memory as to how he’d gotten there.

The lead soldier, moving forward with astonishing speed, was easy to recognise; the make-up on his face was falling off as he moved, revealing the very familiar scar.

“SKORZENY!,” DeRiemer shouted and took aim, only to miss completely as the weapon jerked in his hand. A hail of bullets slashed across the platform, knocking down some of the bodyguards, and DeRiemer gasped as blood showered down onto his face. Skorzeny laughed and jumped up onto the platform, kicking the pistol out of his hand before he could recover. Skorzeny turned to face Churchill…

…Skorzeny knew there was no hope of escape, no chance he might pull off one last miracle. . The British Prime Minister was larger and fatter than he’d imagined but that wouldn’t save him. He kept low, knowing that the British would be hesitant to risk firing at him while he was so close to the Prime Minister… and stopped as Churchill rolled over, a small pistol in his hand. Skorzeny had no time to react as the pistol barked twice. He staggered backwards as two red-hot bullets dug into his chest. He could still win…

Skorzeny was older now than he’d been in his early days; he was still fit and healthy, but he had fewer reserves. More British bullets tore through him and he fell backwards, still trying desperately to lift his weapon enough to draw a bead on Churchill. The Prime Minister rose to his feet, a foolhardy gesture that would have been matched by Skorzeny had he been able to move, and pointed his little weapon directly at Skorzeny’s head. He fired once…