die Stunde X Read online

  die Stunde X

  DIE STUNDE X

  SHAUN STAFFORD

  STREAK OF GENIUS PUBLICATIONS

  127 Essex Road, Stamford, Lincs PE9 1LA

  DIE STUNDE X

  First published in Great Britain in 2009 by Streak Of Genius Publications

  www.streakofgenius.co.uk

  Copyright © Shaun Stafford 1994

  The right of Shaun Stafford to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Cover illustration by GoPostal Studios

  Set in Times New Roman 11pt

  Printed and bound in Great Britain by Lulu, Inc

  ISBN 978-0-9561583-1-4

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  This novel is a work of fiction. All characters in it are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

  For Barry

  This could’ve been our future

  And the feeble-minded and

  the infirmed are always the

  first to go …

  Shaun Stafford lives in Stamford, Lincs. He has two sons. By day, he works for the civil service, but we can’t tell you what he does. By night, he writes fiction. He has written numerous books, and has written and starred in a number of short films. Die Stunde X is from his back catalogue of work.

  Email: [email protected]

  Also available by Shaun Stafford

  The Journal

  Acknowledgements

  It would be impossible to write a book without the help of some supportive friends. However, in my case, I didn’t have any of those, so I had to resort to some unsupportive ones!

  Thanks go to my editor and friend, Barry Warburton, for his attempts to completely and utterly change the plot, the characters, indeed the entire wording of this novel. He failed, of course, but along the way, he spotted mistakes and offered words of wisdom that I occasionally heeded.

  Just to make the reader aware, this novel was originally written in 1994, some 15 years ago, when it was called Heil Führer and I was a mere 25 years old. It was my intention to completely rewrite it before publishing it, but after reading it again, I realized that it did not need such extensive action. When reading the story, bear in mind the fact that it is set during 1994, before the advent of the Internet, before Internet Explorer, indeed, before Windows 95 really took off.

  I have tried to be as contemporary as possible, but am mindful of the fact that if history had occurred the way this novel envisaged, then many trivial things we take for granted, such as music, film, sport, computers and the Internet, would be totally different to how they actually are now. I would have liked to have incorporated such things as the Internet and emails into this story, but I feel it’s better to keep it set in 1994 … it makes my job easier!

  The title of this book is die Stunde X, which means, roughly translated, “Zero Hour”, “the critical moment” or “the moment of truth”. Take your pick!

  Enjoy …

  1

  Goebbelsstrasse was a small, insignificant street in North London, part of a housing project built in the late Sixties. The houses were semi-detached, with small gardens to the front, larger ones to the rear, and narrow driveways to the side. As with most modern housing, they were rented from the government on extended lease terms; after twenty-five years, providing the leaseholder had kept up with the payments, they took over ownership of the house. Reward for their loyalty to the Reich.

  The homes in Goebbelsstrasse were far from extravagant. A few occupants had tried to inject some of their own personality into the décor of the buildings, but for the most part they were drab, dreary and unwelcoming.

  As the sun rose from behind the rows of houses to the east, stretching long shadows across the street, the first signs of life could be seen from within the homes. Lights were switched on, shadowy figures moved behind closed curtains, front doors were opened and milk bottles retrieved. It seemed, without exception, a perfectly ordinary Tuesday morning; men and woman preparing to go to work at one or other of the two neighbouring factories. They washed, ate their breakfasts, watched the early morning television or listened to the breakfast shows on the radio. They carried on with their ordinary lives, and prepared themselves for their ordinary day’s work.

  But their ordinary day was about to be shattered, and for one family in particular things were going to take a definite turn for the worse.

  The relative calm of the early morning was disturbed by the uneven clattering of diesel engines, their rumblings frightening the birds from the telegraph wires strung across the street. If any of the residents of Goebbelsstrasse had happened to look out of their windows at that moment, they would have seen two dark green Mercedes trucks appear and park, one at either end of the street. Before the rear doors of these trucks were opened, any witnesses would have known what they contained. The legend on the side and rear of the trucks read, in bold white text, Ordnungspolizei. The trucks belonged to the local uniformed police force, the Orpo.

  The rear doors were flung open with shouts and barked commands, and ten officers hopped out of each truck and stood in the street. Their uniforms were the same dark green as the trucks, and they wore black boots, body armour and helmets. In their hands they carried Heckler und Koch MP5 submachine-guns. A lieutenant shouted an order, and the officers split up and spread themselves across the street, their guns trained on the windows of the houses.

  When he was finally satisfied with the position of his men, the lieutenant dived into the cab of one of the trucks and grabbed the radio handset. Speaking in German, he said, “Leutnant Muller to control. My men are in position, over.”

  “Received, Leutnant Muller,” the reply came, and Muller put down the handset and looked out of the side window to the T-junction a few yards away. As he watched, three black BMW M3s turned into Goebbelsstrasse and drove past the truck. Muller twisted his head and saw them park outside a house halfway up the street.

  Three men climbed out of each car, and walked up the driveway of the house. They were, unlike the Orpo officers, casually dressed, though two of them wore smart suits, with the rest of them in jeans and jackets. The two suited men stood in front of the door, and one of them pushed the bell. In his hand was a document, along with his identification.

  Muller found himself sympathizing with the family; with the man of the house in particular. Muller knew what was coming, as did all of the Orpo officers assembled. He looked up the street to where the other Mercedes truck was parked. He saw the uniformed officers, each of them keeping their eyes averted from the house in question, as though that would prevent them from actually becoming involved in the operation. Muller knew from experience that such measures could not clear your conscience. In these cases, your conscience could never be cleared. Nevertheless, Muller found himself looking down at the Mercedes dashboard as the front door of the house opened.

  2

  Ross Varley was forty-two, a well-built man, with a chubby, red face, and dark thinning hair. He wore clothes that were a couple of sizes too small for him, as though refusing to acknowledge the fact that he was rapidly becoming overweight. On this particular morning, he was dressed in dark slacks, a clean shirt, and was just tugging on his work overalls when the doorbell rang.

  Frowning, Ross glanced at his watch and saw it was just after six. Who the
hell would be calling at this time of the morning? He heard a commotion from upstairs as his eldest son moved around. They both worked at the Volkswagen Autofabrik, almost two miles north, and they were due to start work at seven that morning. Ross liked to arrive early, but Jerome wasn’t so eager. It was the subject of frequent early morning arguments and meant that the journey to the factory in Ross’s car was usually made in silence.

  Ross let out a sigh and made his way from the kitchen and into the hallway, which was poorly lit; the sun hadn’t risen sufficient to provide the interiors of the houses with enough ambient light. Through the obscure glass in the door he could make out a few figures, two of them standing close to the door. As he walked towards it, the doorbell rang again. There was no impatience in the ringing, and it wasn’t accompanied by loud banging. Whoever was on the other side was certainly in no hurry.

  Ross reached the door and unlocked it as his son pounded down the stairs. He turned and looked at Jerome, who wore a puzzled expression. Jerome was tugging on his overalls. His hair was unkempt, but there was nothing unusual in that.

  “Morning,” Ross greeted his son. Jerome just grunted, and made his way to the kitchen, apparently not particularly interested in the early caller. Ross turned back to the door and opened it.

  He read the words on the top of the identification card which was immediately thrust into his face. Geheime Staatspolizei. The Gestapo – the Deutsches Reich’s Secret State Police. Frowning and twitching, he looked beyond the identification card to the man who was holding it.

  He was clearly German, with distinctive Aryan features – blue eyes, blond hair. His face was pale, and he was thin. The crumpled suit he wore was smart, but as tired and worn as he was.

  “Herr Varley?” the German enquired, his identification still held aloft. He didn’t wait for an answer. He knew he had the right man. Instead, he introduced himself and his nearest colleague. “I am SS-Obersturmführer Loritz, Geheime Staatspolizei, and this is SS-Sturmscharführer Keitel. We would like to speak with you, Herr Varley.”

  “Sure,” Ross said nervously, stepping aside so that the two named Gestapo officers could enter. He noted that seven other, more casually dressed, officers remained in the street outside. He saw that they each carried small MP5K submachine-guns and figured that the two officers now in his house were as equally well-armed.

  Loritz closed the door and pocketed his identification card. He looked down at the document he was holding and then stared Ross in the eye. “Herr Varley, it is my duty to inform you that based on Article One of the Decree of the Reich President for the Protection of the People and State, of the Twenty-Eighth of February, Nineteen Thirty Three, you are hereby to be taken into protective custody in the interest of public security and order. The reason given for this on the Schutzhaft Order here is for questionable remarks inimical to the Deutsches Reich.” Loritz held up the document. “You may read the Schutzhaft Order if you choose, Herr Varley.” He smiled. “If you have no further questions …”

  “What is this for?” Ross demanded to know. He heard Jerome coming out of the kitchen behind him. “What have I done?”

  “Herr Varley, everything has been explained for you,” Loritz said quietly, glancing cursorily towards Jerome. “Please do not make a floorshow of this.”

  “What’s going on, Dad?” Jerome asked.

  “Gestapo,” explained Ross. “They’re arresting me.”

  Jerome could hear the disbelief in his father’s voice. He asked, “What for?”

  “Herr Varley, will you come with us now?” asked Loritz. The other Gestapo officer, Keitel, opened the front door and looked expectantly at Ross.

  “Not until you tell me …”

  “Then you leave me no choice,” Loritz snapped, nodding to Keitel, who in turn nodded to the seven casually dressed men standing in the front garden. Four of them entered the house, and the hallway suddenly became crowded. Ross turned and looked at Jerome, a helpless expression on his face. “Herr Varley, you can either walk out of this house or else be carried. If I were in your position, I would prefer to retain at least some of my dignity.”

  “I want to know what I’m being arrested for.”

  “At the Polizeipräsidium, Herr Varley, we will discuss this issue further,” assured Loritz. “Now, either you will come with us peacefully, or you will be carried out. Either way, you are leaving this house.” Loritz turned to face Jerome accusingly. Jerome, who was reasonably tall and well-built, stared at the Gestapo officer. “You are only making problems for your family, Herr Varley,” the German said, and he smiled slightly as he stared at Ross’s son.

  “What’s going on?” a voice from the top of the stairs shouted, and all of the men in the hallway looked up to see Ross’s wife, Abigail, coming down, her dressing gown pulled tightly across her body. Her medium-length black hair was untidy, her round face without make-up, her usually smiling mouth straight and concerned.

  “Go back upstairs, love,” Ross said.

  “Ross, what’s happening?”

  “Jerome, take your mother in the kitchen,” Ross instructed. Jerome grasped his mother’s arm gently, but she shook him away.

  “Who are these people?”

  “Geheime Staatspolizei, gnädige Frau,” Loritz explained. “Herr Varley, please, come with us. Don’t make this any worse than it already is.”

  “Gestapo?” snapped Abigail, swallowing nervously. “What do you want with my husband?”

  “Frau Varley, this is not of your concern.”

  A hand grabbed Ross’s arm and he felt himself being dragged to the door. There was little he could do to prevent it. He twisted his head, caught a glimpse of his wife staring in disbelief at the spectacle that was taking place in the hallway of their house. He saw Jerome with his arm around her, but Abigail wasn’t about to be restrained. She tried to break free. Jerome maintained a tight grip on her.

  He was a good son.

  Ross saw the open door of one of the black BMWs, could see its darkened interior, darkened because of the severely tinted windows the Gestapo used. The two men who held Ross shoved him roughly in the back seat of the BMW; one of them climbed in beside him, and the door was slammed shut. Ross saw the MP5K that the man shoved in his side before he felt its hard muzzle poking into his ribcage.

  He turned his attentions back to his house, where Loritz and his fellow officers were preparing to leave. Abigail, distraught, stood on the doorstep with Jerome beside her. As the Gestapo officers climbed into their cars, Ross saw his two other children try to push their way through the doorway, between their mother and Jerome. Jerome pushed them back, anything to prevent them from witnessing the terrible scene of their father being taken away by the Secret State Police.

  As the car’s engine fired up, Ross could see his neighbours standing in their doorways. To them, this was a sight that was worth witnessing. They could gossip about it all day at work.

  Gossip about and sympathize with poor old Ross Varley, who had obviously stepped out of line, who had obviously committed some treasonous act against the German State. They would sympathize, but they would offer no support; only a fool would offer support.

  Ross had been a fool, and look where it had got him.

  3

  The room was small, probably nine feet square, with a high ceiling and two doors. Ross knew that one of the doors led into the corridor along which he had walked moments before. The other door let to an unknown location. Ross, however, had a good idea of what lay beyond it.

  The room held a table, around which were three chairs, two on one side, one on the other. Ross sat on the solitary chair, and Loritz and Keitel sat on the chairs opposite him. Keitel was smoking. Behind him, on a steel-framed shelf, was a tape deck. It was running, its motor whirring quietly, almost inaudibly, as it recorded the conversation. In one corner of the room, high against the ceiling, a camera was also recording everything for posterity.

  Loritz sighed, his hand casually wafting the cigarette sm
oke away from his face, before opening a file on the table in front of him. Ross tried to read what was written on the first sheet, but found it impossible for two reasons; firstly it was upside down to him and secondly it was written in German and he had never quite managed to grasp the language, despite the law requiring that all Deutsches Reich citizens be taught the language to an acceptable level. After leaving school, any German he had managed to retain had been almost instantly forgotten. It wasn’t needed. Even now, Ross knew it wouldn’t have helped him.

  “Herr Varley, I suppose you are wondering why you have been issued with a Schutzhaft Order?”

  “Do you people need a reason?” snapped Ross. He knew he shouldn’t have been antagonizing these officers. Not because they were only doing their job, but because they had the power of life or death within their grasp. And Ross knew that they would use that to their advantage.

  “Yesterday, whilst at work at the Volkswagen Autofabrik in Brent, you uttered the following statement,” Loritz said, casting his junior officer an evil glance. Keitel responded by stubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray on the table. “‘I’d like to see those Combat UK men shoot the bloody Führer.’” Loritz looked up from the file to see the colour draining from Ross’s face. “Is that true, Herr Varley?”

  “I … that … I didn’t mean …”

  “Herr Varley, did you utter that statement?” Loritz asked calmly, and with a gentle sigh, as though this line of questioning was boring him.

  “It wasn’t … it wasn’t like that.”

  “Herr Varley, we have a tape-recording of the conversation during which the offending statement was made. It is believed that the man who made the statement was you. Can you confirm or deny that accusation?”