The Mountain (A James Shaw Mission Book 2) Read online

  Out of the corner of his eye, Adler saw a senior SS officer enter the room. Quietly, the man moved over beside Himmler. The officer was an SS major-general whom Adler did not recognize; in his hands was a black file folder with Adler’s name stenciled on it in silver lettering.

  The general opened the file and then began to speak. “Carlos Victor Adler was born in Berlin, on April tenth 1910, the only child to Bruno Adler and Carla Zayas. Before Herr Adler was allowed to join the SS, both parents’ families were extensively researched. As expected, there was absolutely no history of racial impurity. Herr Adler was educated in both Berlin and Madrid; he is fluent in both German and Spanish and has a good working knowledge of French and English. A veteran of the Spanish Civil War, he enlisted in the SS on March third 1938 and has served loyally in Poland, France, Yugoslavia and now Russia. Wounded in battle, he was awarded the Iron Cross, First-Class, for calling down artillery fire onto his position in order to repel an attack by Russian forces during an engagement on the outskirts of Kiev.”

  Himmler said, “Herr Adler, you are to be commended on your war record.”

  “Thank you, Herr Himmler, I was only doing my duty,” replied Adler.

  “Where were you wounded?”

  “Sir, I had a piece of shrapnel lodged in my shoulder. It was nothing.”

  “Does it trouble you?”

  “No, Herr Himmler. I was back at my post two days after it was removed.”

  Himmler took a step closer and looked deep into Adler’s eyes. “I was told that you are an accomplished climber and that there isn’t another officer in the SS with your level of experience. Is this true?”

  “Sir, I cannot say if I am the most experienced climber in the SS. However, I do pride myself on being a good mountaineer,” replied Adler. “I learned to climb when I was still a boy. My Uncle Jurgen has a cottage in Switzerland and for several weeks each summer, I would visit him, and he would take me climbing.”

  “Which mountains have you climbed?” asked Himmler.

  “Sir, I have climbed the Matterhorn in Switzerland, Mont Blanc in France and the Mulhacen in Spain as well as many other lesser peaks throughout Europe.”

  “When was the last time you climbed?”

  “Last year when I was home on leave,” replied Adler, beginning to wonder where the conversation was heading.

  “And which mountain did you climb?” asked the SS general.

  “Sir, my uncle and I climbed the Grossglockner in Austria,” said Adler. “It wasn’t an overly difficult climb.”

  “I’m not familiar with that peak, is it very tall?” said Himmler.

  “Sir, at thirty-eight hundred meters, it is the tallest mountain in Austria,” said Adler.

  “What is the tallest peak you have ever climbed?” asked Himmler.

  “The Matterhorn, sir,” answered Adler.

  “And how tall is the Matterhorn?” asked Himmler.

  “Sir, it is almost forty-five hundred meters tall,” said Adler.

  “So you are familiar with the effects of altitude sickness?” asked the general.

  “Yes, sir, I know all about altitude sickness and how to work safely in an environment where the air is thinner.”

  Himmler looked over at the general and then nodded his head.

  “Herr Adler, we need you to lead an expedition to Tibet to find an artifact of great power that is rumored to be hidden somewhere in the Himalayan mountains. Finding it will be hard, but should you succeed it will undoubtedly ensure our victory in this war. Do you feel capable of leading such a mission?” asked Himmler.

  “Sir, I would be truly honored to lead this mission,” replied Adler. He couldn’t believe his ears. Heinrich Himmler, the leader of the SS, was personally asking him to do something for Germany. “However, sir, I must respectfully point out that climbing a mountain, any mountain, is not an easy task. I will need to meet the other team members and take them on several climbs before we head to Tibet. I need to judge their fitness and their ability to work together as a team in high altitudes.”

  Himmler shook his head. “I’m sorry, Herr Adler, but that won’t be possible. We’ve already lost two expeditions in the past year. One we know was captured by the British when they tried to cross the border from Afghanistan into India, while the other disappeared without a trace shortly after entering Tibet. With men and material coming across the Atlantic from the United States to England at an alarming rate, it is critical that your mission succeeds. Therefore, operational secrecy must be maintained throughout this endeavor. That is why your team will meet you in Tibet. Aside from the date and place where you will all meet, they know almost nothing about this mission. Your people have never met one another and will be shortly infiltrated one at a time into India by anti-British Indian volunteers working for the Japanese.”

  Adler took a deep breath. He chose his next words carefully. “Herr Himmler, can I at least know who these people are and what their experience in climbing is?”

  Himmler shook his head.

  “Very good sir, when do I leave?” said Adler, knowing that he would learn nothing more today from his superiors. He was blindly heading into enemy territory.

  “You leave three days from now,” said the general.

  “Very good, sir.”

  “And before you ask, Herr Obertsturmfuhrer, the artifact you are being sent to retrieve will also remain a secret for now,” said Himmler. “The less you know, the better, should you be captured by the British. One of your team members knows what she is looking for. I am certain that she will tell you when the time is right. Your job is to ensure the successful completion of this assignment. Bring this artifact back, Herr Adler, and you will be a hero to the German people. If you do not succeed, it will be because you died trying.”

  Adler nodded his understanding.

  Himmler offered his hand. “I think that covers everything. General Lehmann will brief you further. Good luck, Herr Adler, I know you will not fail.”

  Adler shook Himmler’s hand. It was soft and weak. The hand of a man who has lived a comfortable life thought Adler.

  “Herr Obertsturmfuhrer, if you will follow me,” said General Lehmann, looking over at the closed doors. “We have a few matters to discuss before I take you to meet with Professor Berger. His insight will prove invaluable as he was a member of the last expedition to explore Tibet before the war.”

  Adler came to attention, smartly saluted Himmler and then followed Lehmann out of the office. His mind was buzzing with questions. He hoped that Professor Berger might shed some light on why he was going to Tibet. However, deep down, Adler suspected that he would learn precious little. He wasn’t a member of the SS Inner Circle. He was just a means to an end. Adler took a deep breath and resigned himself to his new assignment. Himmler had made it quite clear. Come back with the ancient relic, whatever it might be, or don’t come back at all.

  He followed the SS General into his office and was handed a cup of coffee by Lehmann’s orderly.

  “Sir, if I may ask, aside from my skill as a climber why was I selected for this mission?” asked Adler.

  “Herr Adler, that should be self-evident to you,” replied Lehmann. “Because of your heritage you should have no problem passing yourself off as someone who is not a German citizen. In this case, you will take on the role of a Cuban explorer. As they are at war with us, your activities in Tibet should not draw too much attention from the British. You will be provided with a Cuban passport and identification papers before you leave here.”

  Adler grinned and then said, “I take it the rest of the team members are also Spanish speakers.”

  “Correct. A couple of them have mixed parents like you, while the remainder are from the Spanish Blue Division. They were all quietly selected and recruited for this mission by one of my best officers.”

  Adler knew that Franco had been pressured to send a combat division of volunteers to fight on the Russian front as payback for Hitler’s support during the Span
ish Civil War. He had never met any Spanish soldiers in Russia but had heard that they were efficient fighters.

  Lehmann picked up a note from his desk and handed it to Adler. “Memorize this. It contains the place, date, and the name of your contact in Afghanistan. He knows you are coming. He will escort you through India and will provide you with everything you need, from climbing supplies to guides. You can trust him; his employer is no friend of the British Empire.”

  Adler took the note and read it over several times before handing it back to Lehmann. It was all starting to fall into place. It was apparent that this mission had been meticulously planned and that he was the last person to be brought on board. He took a sip of his coffee and began to wonder what had happened to the team that had gone missing. Perhaps they had met some tragic mishap while climbing or were captured by the British and quietly locked away in some hellhole in India. Either way, they had failed in their mission, and that was something he refused to do. He had never failed and did not intend to now.

  What he didn’t realize was that the British were soon going to be the least of his worries.

  Chapter 5

  France

  Outskirts of Bayeux, Normandy

  May 10th, 1942

  Oberst Erden Ruman sat back, let out a deep, bored sigh and then looked out the window of his staff car as it made its way along a narrow road leading to Bayeux. Outside, with clouds covering the night sky, the countryside was as black as pitch.

  He reached up and then ran a finger inside his constricting tunic collar trying to loosen it up a little. Ruman realized that his full-dress uniform was slowly becoming a bit too tight. At forty-three years of age, Ruman was starting to put on weight around his mid-section from sitting behind a desk all day long. His reddish-brown hair had begun to thin on the back, which he tried to cover by combing his hair over the growing bald spot.

  A beautiful young woman in her mid-twenties with pale white skin and golden-yellow hair sat beside Ruman. She was wearing a silver-colored evening dress with a fox fur scarf draped over shoulders. A long strand of lustrous pearls hung delicately around her slender neck.

  “Dear, do you know if will there be many dignitaries at the function tonight?” asked the woman in German with a hint of a French accent.

  Ruman smiled, reached over and then delicately patted her knee. “I was told that Herman Goering himself along with several other high-ranking officers from Luftwaffe Headquarters in Berlin will be there. It should be quite the occasion.”

  A smile crept across the woman’s face. Hated as a collaborator by her fellow citizens, when France fell, Sophie Brion had quickly chosen her side. A failed stage actress, becoming Ruman’s mistress had been as easy to her as changing her clothes.

  “I have always wanted to meet Herr Goering,” said Brion as she dug into her purse to find her tube of thick red lipstick.

  “Well, perhaps you will get your chance tonight.”

  “I had better. I didn’t get all dressed up for nothing.”

  Ruman shook his head and then turned to gaze out into the night.

  Accompanied by two motorcycles, Ruman’s staff car slowed down slightly as it approached a narrow stone bridge. Suddenly, a man stepped out of the dark and onto the road swinging a lantern back and forth in front of him, signaling the vehicles to stop.

  Ruman’s driver slowed the staff car down. He turned his head slightly and said, “Sir, looks like something is going on.”

  Ruman glanced down at his watch. It was nearing seven-thirty at night.

  “Is something wrong?” asked Brion.

  “No, I don’t believe so,” replied Ruman as he reached down and picked up a brown leather briefcase from the floor. He held it tight in his arms. A second later, he took a deep breath to calm his racing heart. What he had inside his briefcase was more valuable than anything he had ever possessed.

  Private First Class Tom Prager brought his motorbike to a halt, switched off the engine, and then pulled up the goggles from his face so he could see better. He could see a soldier standing in the middle of the road holding a lantern in his hands.

  “What’s the matter?” called out Prager.

  The soldier lowered the lantern and then walked over to Prager.

  “There’s been a terrible accident on the other side of the bridge,” explained the soldier. “A truck rolled over. There are a couple of badly hurt men still trapped under the wreckage. I’m sorry, but you’ll have to find another way around.”

  Prager swore under his breath. He looked over at the man riding the other motorbike, pointed at the bridge and then shook his head.

  “Is there another way across the river?” Prager asked the soldier.

  “Yes, you’ll have to turn around and go back two kilometers,” said the soldier, pointing back down the road. “At the first intersection, turn right and follow that road. It will take you to another bridge, shouldn’t add more than fifteen minutes to your journey.”

  “Thanks,” said Prager.

  “You should pass on what is going on to the other rider while I give the staff car driver the directions,” said the soldier.

  Prager thanked the soldier, pushed down on his bike’s kickstand, got off and then walked over to the other motorbike rider to tell him what was going on.

  “Sir, someone’s coming,” said the staff car driver to Ruman.

  Instantly, Ruman felt his mouth become dry. He struggled to control the fear running through him. He turned his head so he could see out the car’s front windshield. In the headlights, Ruman could see the soldier walking towards them. He knew what was about to happen. His hands clenched the briefcase tight until his knuckles began to turn white.

  The staff car driver rolled his window down to speak with the soldier. “What’s up?” asked the driver.

  The soldier walked over to the driver’s side window, stopped, looked both ways, and then in a flash drew a silenced pistol from behind his back. “Don’t do anything stupid, and you’ll come out of this alive. I want you to slowly place your hands on the steering wheel where I can see them.”

  The driver hesitated for a moment. He glanced into the rearview mirror. The driver saw Ruman nod his head. The man, however, wasn’t a coward; he didn’t want to surrender without a fight. Foolishly thinking that he was faster than he was, the driver reached for his pistol holster.

  The silenced pistol fired. Instantly, the driver’s head snapped back. Blood flew from the hole blasted in the side of his head.

  In the back of the car, Brion jumped back in her seat and let out a terrified scream at the sight of the soldier’s blood splattered all over the windshield.

  At the bridge, the two motorbike riders were already dead, killed silently by a couple of British commandos before they knew what was going on.

  The soldier with the pistol reached over and pulled open Ruman’s door. He thrust his pistol inside and said, “Out now, or I’ll kill you as easily as I did your driver!”

  “There’s no need,” replied Ruman, his voice shaking. “I’ll do what you want.”

  Ruman slowly climbed out of the car and stood on the road looking down the barrel of a silenced pistol. In the light of the car’s headlights, Ruman saw that the man in front of him looked like he was in peak condition. Standing over six feet tall, he had intense gray eyes that were fixed on Ruman, who had no doubt that if he made one false move, he would be a dead man.

  Brion, with tears in her eyes, moved towards the open door.

  “No, stay where you are!” snapped the soldier.

  “She’s coming with me,” said Ruman, trying to sound defiant. “Either we go together or I won’t go.”

  The soldier shook his head. “I was ordered to get you and you alone out of France. No one told me about a woman coming along with you.”

  “I don’t care what you were told. She comes and that’s all there is to it.”

  The soldier stepped forward and placed his pistol against Ruman’s head. “What’s to st
op me from blowing your brains out all over the side of the car and then taking your briefcase from you?”

  “Because it has a safety device built into the lock,” replied Ruman. “If you don’t open the lock correctly, a vial of acid will shatter destroying everything inside the briefcase. Your superiors would be very upset with you if you lost the valuable information contained inside this briefcase.”

  “Is he bluffing?” said the soldier over his shoulder in English.

  “No, sir, I hate to say it, but he’s probably telling the truth,” said Sergeant Duncan Bruce, his voice heavy with a Scottish accent as he stepped out of the shadows. He wasn’t wearing a German uniform; instead, he wore his RAF battledress. In his hands was a Thompson submachine gun. Not overly tall, Bruce had a slim build with a slender, angular face, dark-red hair and forest green eyes.

  “Damn it,” said Captain James Shaw.

  “I’m sorry to spring this on you,” said Ruman, “but I doubted that Allied Intelligence would have agreed to my terms if I had told them about Mademoiselle Brion.”

  “What is going on, Erden?” asked Brion, looking over at Shaw and Bruce.

  “My dear, I am defecting to the Allies,” replied Ruman, “and I want you to come with me.”

  Brion hesitated for a moment, not sure what to say. If she didn’t go, she couldn’t stay in France. Her own people already hated her, and the Germans would naturally blame her for Ruman’s disappearance and kill her as a member of the Resistance. She truly had no choice in the matter.

  With a practiced smile on her lips, Brion said, “Of course my dear, I’ll come with you.”

  “Captain don’t worry about it. We’ll still be able to take off,” said Bruce. “I doubt she weighs more than a hundred pounds.”

  Shaw reluctantly nodded his head. He didn’t like it, but he had a mission to finish.

  A second later, a British commando stepped from the dark, his face blackened for concealment. “Sir, we should get moving,” said the commando. “We’ve been lucky so far. However, the Resistance chaps told us that Jerry regularly patrols these roads.”