Free the Valhalla Exchange (v5) by Jack Higgins

Frenchman demanded as they approached.
    'Oh, you tell them, Justin,' Canning said. 'I've had enough for one day.'
    He moved away, Magda at his knee, went down the steps past the lily pond and entered the conservatory. Schneider followed, but stayed in the porch.
    It was warm and humid in there, plants everywhere, palms and vines, heavy with grapes. He followed the black and white mosaic of the path and came to the centre fountain where he found Claire de Beauville tending the scarlet winter roses that were her special pride.
    Canning paused for a moment, watching her. She was really beautiful, the dark hair pulled back to the nape of the neck, exposing the oval triangle of the face. The high cheekbones, the wide, quiet eyes, the generous mouth. He was conscious of the old, familiar stirring and the slight feeling of anger that went with it.
    Orphaned at an early age and supported by an uncle in the shipping business in Shanghai, whom he never saw, he had spent most of his youth at boarding schools of one kind or another before he finally entered West Point. From that moment, he had given his all to the army; sacrificed everything to the demands of military life with single-minded devotion. He had never felt the need for wife or family. There had been women, of course, but only in the most basic way. Now, everything had changed. For the first time in his life, another human being could touch him and that was not a concept that fitted comfortably into his scheme of things.
    Claire turned, gardening fork in one hand, and smiled. 'There you are. What happened?'
    'Oh, we have to wait another twenty-four hours. Max wants to make one last attempt to get in touch with Prisoner of War Administration Headquarters in Berlin. The correct Junker officer, right to the bitter end.'
    'And you, Hamilton, what do you want?'
    'To be free now,' he said, his voice suddenly urgent. 'It's been too long, Claire, don't you see?'
    'And you've missed too much, isn't that it?' He frowned and she carried on. 'The war, Hamilton. Your precious war. Bugles faintly on the wind, the smoke of battle. Meat and drink to you; what your soul craves. And who knows, if you were free now, there might still be the chance to get involved. Have one last glorious fling.'
    'That's a hell of a thing to say.'
    'But true. And what can I offer as a substitute? Only winter roses.'
    She smiled slightly. He caught her then, pulling her into his arms, his mouth fastening hungrily on hers.
    Ritter, seated at the piano in the canteen, was playing a Chopin etude, a particular favourite of his. It was a piece which comforted him, in spite of the fact that this present instrument was distinctly out of tune. It reminded him of other days. Of his father and mother and the small country estate in Prussia where he had been raised.
    The Russians were shelling constantly now, the sound of the explosions audible even at that depth, the concrete walls trembling. There was that all-pervading smell of sulphur, dust everywhere.
    A drunken SS lieutenant lurched against the piano, slopping beer over the keys. 'We've had enough of that rubbish. What about something rousing? Something to lift the heart. A chorus of "Horst Wessel", perhaps?'
    Ritter stopped playing and looked up at him. 'You're speaking to me, I presume?' His voice was very quiet, yet infinitely dangerous, the white face burning, the eyes dark.
    The lieutenant took in the Knight's Cross, the Oak Leaves, the Swords, the rank insignia and tried to draw himself together. 'I'm sorry, Sturmbannfuhrer. My mistake.'
    'So it would appear. Go away.'
    The lieutenant moved off to join a noisy jostling throng as drunk as himself. A young nurse in service uniform was passing by. One of them pulled her across his knee. Another slipped a hand up her skirt. She laughed and reached up to kiss a third hungrily.
    Ritter, totally disgusted, helped himself to a bottle of Steinhager at the bar, filled a glass and sat at an empty table. After a while,