Page 36 of Clive Cussler The Iron Storm
Schmidt knew his place within the cell was precarious. He’d been recruited because of where he worked and because he was infinitely corruptible. He wasn’t a true ideologue like Rath and his band of cutthroats. Still, he dared to give a little pushback. “Karl, it’s not worth it. The real mission is with the admiral. Your plan with the plane is brilliant, but it’s a sideshow, a distraction we don’t need. Why take the risk? We can leave now, tonight.”
The woman’s eyes shot to Rath’s face. It was clear she didn’t know he was planning on leaving. He pinned her back with an angry stare, as if defying her to speak. She couldn’t meet the glare for even a second before her gaze dropped to her lap.
“You just want to save yourself, Schmidt,” Karl Rath said, turning back to the sergeant. “You want us to take you to America so that when this war is over, you are not tried for torturing and even murdering captive Allied airmen. A chance for freedom and a little money to help start a new life is a fine motivation for a man like you.”
Schmidt didn’t exactly like how Rath said that so dismissively, but he wasn’t wrong. That was all he wanted.
“Do you know what I want, Jurgen? I want to tear it all down, all of the European monarchies and royal families and anyone else who lived like a parasite off the rest of the people for hundreds and in some cases a thousand years. Kaisers, tsars, queens, and kings. All of them need to be swept aside, abolished, and abandoned.”
“Why?” Schmidt asked, not grasping the scope of Rath’s ambition. “I mean what’s it to you?”
“You understand that there is no opportunity here, no place for a man to better his station in life beyond maybe owning one more suit than his father ever had, or buy an extra hectare or two for the family farm. That’s what I want to create.”
Schmidt was clearly confused. “A farm?”
“No,” Rath said, hiding his annoyance. “Opportunity. Out of the ashes of the old Europe will rise a new one, one where people can achieve anything provided they are willing to work for it.”
“You’re doing this for the people?”
“Don’t be naive. I’m doing it for myself and a group of like-minded men from all over the world who will pull the levers behind the scenes when peace is finally declared, and will mold the world as we see fit.”
“So your cell…”
Rath didn’t respond, believing he’d said too much, though a dullard like Schmidt wouldn’t understand. He looked to his female companion, Magdalena. She was a tavern keeper’s daughter, not particularly bright and easily controlled. He needn’t worry about her, either.
“Enough,” Rath said to get the conversation back on track. “I will send her back to her father in Belgium and we will proceed as planned, only we will bump up the time frame.” Rath got to his feet and pulled Magdalena from her chair. “Be ready to come with us, Jurgen, and start your journey to America.”
19
Four hours later, the jailcells were quiet except for the occasional snore or soft grunt of a man being tortured by his dreams. Liam Holmes had arranged for Bell to share his cell that night. He’d given back the knife as soon as Bell had returned from his interrogation and together they had sketched out the bare minimum of a plan to get them all out of the prison castle.
Three guards remained on duty in the basement at night. They usually slept in shifts out of boredom and only occasionally left the reception area to check on their prisoners in the back cells. Since returning from Kreisberg’s office, Bell had been moaning theatrically and occasionally retching. The guards knew well Schmidt’s handiwork and gave it little thought.
“It’s time,” Bell whispered to Holmes, who was on the bottom of the bunk beds.
Bell started crying out as if his very life was in the balance. “Help me, please,” he wailed. “Something is wrong inside of me.”
It was an old ploy and usually wouldn’t work, but the guards here knew they had high-level prisoners, officers, and that there would be severe consequences if one died while under their eye.
Two guards quickly appeared at the door. Holmes moved to the rear of the cell with his hands over his head. Bell remained curled on the cold floor next to the slop bucket. The door was opened. One guard remained just outside the cell, his rifle in hand, but not particularly concerned. The guard that crossed over to Bell had left his weapon out in the main reception area.
He came to Bell and asked something in German. Bell moaned a pained response and gave the guard no other option but to gesture for Liam Holmes to help lift him to his feet. Holmes came over and together they got Bell to stand. He swayed with an arm over both men’s shoulders and them taking most of his weight.
In lockstep they crossed back to the cell door. As they neared, Bell lurched through the doorway into the guard standing outside. In the same instant, Holmes used all of his strength to jam the razor-sharp knife through that guard’s uniform coat and shirt, and in between his third and fourth ribs. His heart stopped almost instantly, but even so he would have been able to cry out had the Englishman not clamped his left hand over the man’s mouth.
While this was happening, Bell had gotten his other hand onto the back of the first guard’s head for leverage and used the one draped over his shoulder to snap his neck around in a spiral fracture that severed his spinal cord.
To keep up the ruse for the guard out in the main part of the basement, Bell moaned a few more times. They quickly searched both guards for keys and anything else that could aid in their escape. Apart from a small pocketknife and the Gewehr model 98 bolt-action rifle, they found nothing useful. Bell left those to Holmes andtook back his boot knife, which Holmes had cleaned off on the dead guard’s tunic.
Bell left Holmes to drag the bodies into the cell. He padded down the hallway with his knife in hand. The third guard wasn’t behind the counter, but there was light spilling from around a partially closed door to a room behind it. He crossed to it and peered inside. The third guard happened to be looking toward the door at that exact second and saw an unfamiliar face. There was an alarm button wired to the wall a few feet from where he sat. He turned to activate it as Bell reversed the grip on his knife and threw it in a well-practiced maneuver. Even as the blade tumbled through the air, Bell was rushing in after it.
The tip of the knife sliced between the delicate bones in the back of the man’s hand a moment before he reached the alarm and emerged through his palm with enough force to slam the weapon’s small hilt against his skin. Bell was there a moment later, gripping the knife and using his momentum to plunge the dagger into the man’s chest. He eased the dying man to the floor and waited for him to expire before yanking the boot knife free.
He took the guard’s Luger pistol and jammed two spare magazines into his pants pocket.
By the time he returned to the cell block, Holmes had the other doors open and the other five men freed. They had discussed earlier that while Bell had no choice but to escape tonight or face certain execution, the others had no desire to spend the rest of the war as prisoners of the German empire. Better to risk recapture or death than to meekly accept such a fate.
They didn’t know how the drafty castle was used at night, if there were dormitories inside or roving guards, so Bell told the Brits to wait in the basement while he reconnoitered the old keep.
