GAMES AT DEAUVILLE is the sequel of FLIGHT AT PEENEMŰNDE. Hopefully, you'll find it as appealing.

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Dave MacMillan




Obersturmführer Stefan Schmidt sat at his desk on Sunday morning and stared at the copies of the radio transmissions the Sicherheitsdienst had forwarded the night before.

The cow was going to love this. It was everything she'd dreamt of this past month. Aloud and often, Schmidt mused. Her hatred for the English baron was insanity but, somehow, she'd managed to get the Sicherheitsdienst to notify her of anything they heard about him. He wondered who she'd slept with to accomplish that.

He reached up and touched the insignia of his rank on his uniform jacket. It had been one month and five days since he graduated officers training school and earned the rank of Obersturmführer of the Waffen-SS. He had reported to his duty assignment one month ago exactly.

He had been assigned to the only woman in the service. The Gräfin von Kys had been well known in Party circles even before the Reichsführer had given her a command in the Waffen-SS, a short fortnight before Schmidt had to report to her. Even the commandant of the officers training school knew of her.

It had been he who warned Schmidt - the day before graduation. Gisele von Kys was fat and was reputed to be sexually insatiable. She was known as the black widow among some of the men in the Party who had fallen into her web.

Schmidt shuddered as he remembered one of the rumours the commandant had mentioned. Some boy at university had made her pregnant - before she married the Gräf. Even from the Mädelsbund, she thrumped a rape charge against him and saw to it that he'd faced a firing squad. The rumour was that she'd had an orgasm when they shot him.

Schmidt had avoided the Gräfin's clutches for the month he had been her adjutant. He also carried a contraceptive in his wallet in case she ever did manage to corner him so that he did have to perform. He hoped that he would never be put in that position.

He might well find himself there with the information from the Sicherheitsdienst in his hands. He shuddered once again and picked up the telephone.

* * *

Gisele von Kys woke on Sunday morning to the incessant ringing of the telephone beside her bed. She pushed her sleep mask onto her forehead and sat up. "Gefickt!" she growled and glared at the telephone as she quickly pulled her thoughts together.

Only her own office in the SS and Reichsführer Himmler himself had this number. It was only to be used for official business. That was the reason that it sat on her bedside cabinet instead of out in the flat where her servant could answer it. This was the first time in the two months that she had become a part of the Reich's security service that it had rung.

It was impossible that the Reichsführer would call her - not on a Sunday morning. That left her office. And it would have to be important. She pulled her thoughts together quickly and, smiling, reached for the receiver. "Von Kys," she said as she brought it to her mouth, trying hard to put that perfect sense of authority in her voice that was integral to the personae of senior party members.

"Are you alone, Gräfin?" the soft, Rhenish-accented male voice asked. She instantly recognised her assistant's voice and pictured Stefan Schmidt standing before her in his Feldgrau uniform. Before she could react to that image, it altered and his large hands were on her breasts, his fingers tweaking her nipples. A warm tingle spread through her.

Obersturmführer Stefan Schmidt was the perfect example of what the Führer intended to make of the men of the German Volk - tall, blond, blue-eyed, broad-shouldered and narrow-waisted - definitely enough of a man to satisfy any woman.

She sniffed. It had been far too long since she had a man, much less one as attractive as Stefan. It had been at least two months. A wisp of desire sprang to life between her legs.

She wished that she was not almost thirty. It would be pleasant to be again a young twenty as Stefan Schmidt was. She forced the image away from her.

"Of course, I'm alone," she answered, running her fingers through the tight, peroxided curls of her hair. She wondered if she should have another permanent put in. "I'm still in mourning, Stefan. Why have you called?"

"Something that may be important came in from England last night, Gräfin. About your son and that Briton who kidnapped him."

"Tell me," she demanded, totally awake now. She sat up in the bed, the satin of her nightgown riding up her thick thighs.

"The Baron Petersholme flies to France tomorrow-"


"Our contact doesn't know. Gräfin, we are dealing with simple farmhands - they do not know what is important."

"He flies?" she demanded but continued on before Stefan Schmidt could answer. "So, Petersholme is to arrive in Paris on Monday. Find out why from our informants in Paris, Obersturmführer. Continue."

"Your son and your husband's murderer will be at the English nobleman's estate in the north of England. They will be alone there, except for an old woman - this Baron Petersholme's aunt."

"No-one knows of this informant? He isn't a plant?"

"No one. He is a trusted employee on the estate-"

"Then why does he betray his Baron?"

Schmidt chuckled. "He is English, Gräfin. They know no loyalty, except to money. They are like the Jews in that way."

Gisele's mind whirled with possibilities. Stefan's information was the best that she'd had since she had woken in the stables at Schloß Kys surrounded by fire. "Meet me at the office tonight, Stefan-"

She thought of Horst Müller, her late husband's Party aide, then. He had been transferred at her request to her service when she transferred to the SS. The man was totally loyal. "Call Hauptscharführer Müller and have him join us there as well. 2000 hours."

"Heil Hitler!" Stefan Schmidt said and hung up the telephone.


Gisele von Kys continued to hold the receiver for several minutes. A smile grew across her face. She would finally have her revenge on the last Jorsten boy. It was a shame that he would to be die over there in England. A proper firing squad would be better - like the one his brother had faced. She wished she could watch it as she had his brother's.

She would be able to rid the new German world of that meddlesome Englishman too. And she would pull the trigger that ended his life. The Baron Petersholme would be like her husband Janus. Dead. But, then, that was what the world needed - to kill off the leeches that the landed aristocracy were. This was a new day and the new order was already rising out of the ashes of the past. Yes, she would have to shoot Petersholme - personally. She would enjoy that.

And she would again make Wilhelm a son of Germany. He was her son. She had made a mistake in allowing Janus to become close to him - the boy had become too soft. But he was bright enough to enter school already. He could be easily shaped into what German youth was to become.

"Yes!" she whispered as she imagined the boy in the uniform of an Adolf Hitler infant school. Even better, a boarding school; he was almost old enough. The boy would be shaped into the strength that the Führer demanded of the new Germany. A boarding school was definitely the proper place for him. She would be free to give herself completely to the party then as well. She grinned. Perhaps a school in Bavaria and far from Berlin.

She had to devise a plan. A two-pronged plan - one to kill Dagold Jorsten and reclaim the boy, the other to kill that Petersholme. She had plenty of time, however. It was not yet ten o'clock, and she had until eight that evening to make her plans. She called her maid to draw her a bath. She always thought best in a warm bath.

She tried to avoid looking at the left side of her forehead in the mirror as she put on her make-up. Her gaze, however, kept being drawn there. To the scar that extended out a centimetre from her hair line. She snarled when she realised that she was again looking at the mark that bastard Petersholme had put on her for life. She quickly finished applying powder to her cheeks and, pulling her gaze away from the image of the round-faced woman with the throbbing scar nearly at her temple, turned to watch her maid make up her bed.

He had shot her that night. Her husband's friend from England. Petersholme had shot her. He'd almost killed her.

She'd found that schwuler Dagold Jorsten taking his pleasure with Janus in the stables. Having his way with her husband - as his brother had with her.

She had thought that she was in love with him, the queer's brother. Emil Jorsten had been perfect. Tall, blond, athletic, bright, manly - a god. Gisele had given herself to him. Her virginity and her soul. She had made herself available to his every whim.

She snorted at how much of a fool she had been. She had even cleaned his room each day so that he could have his way with her on a made up bed. She had cooked for him. She had been his dog, a slave to his every desire.

She had already joined the Party. Anyone could see that National Socialism was the wave of the future in 1932. She had been in her final year at the university. She had been Emil's lover for three months when she learnt that she was pregnant.

"Mein süßes Kühchen," Emil had laughed at her. "You will need to see the doctor in the university's student health department." He had smiled beatifically. "I hear he does many little cleansing operations for the female students. A week after yours and we will again be making mad, passionate love."

She had insisted that he marry her. She was still Catholic, though she was a member of the Party. She wasn't going to have an abortion.

He had taken his key from her and told her to go back to her hall of residence. Emil Jorsten had left her in that condition, exiling her from his life.

She sniggered as she remembered him less than two months ago. He had quaked as he stood in front of the firing squad. She still couldn't believe how much she had enjoyed watching those bullets tear through his body. It had made everything that happened these past five and a half - almost six years - worthwhile. He was one pig who would never again leave a girl in the family way.

His sweet little cow indeed! She had thought that it was an endearment when she thought she loved him. But it had rankled for these past five years. She was a full-figured woman. She had a Rubensesque figure. She was not a little cow.

Of course, she had known that Janus von Kys was an invert. She had known everything there was to know about him before she married him. The party leader at the university had been there to help. And Janus was a new and unmarried instructor in the chemistry department. She'd been pregnant. He would give the child inside her legitimacy and she would give him a future in the new Germany.

Hauptscharführer Horst Müller had become Janus' party watchdog after he and Gisele were married. An old fighter from before the party came to power, he had been handpicked to keep her husband out of trouble for her while she rose higher within the Bund Deutscher Mädel. She had found him after she had given birth to Wilhelm. After the party began restoring the Reich and she was at the BDM. She had wanted more for Janus than just a job as a university instructor.

Reichsführer Himmler had been generous with his appointment for her husband. Müller had come with Himmler's appointment. And he had proven to be faithful to her.

Müller had been the one who told her that Janus and the boy were doing it. But seeing them kneeling in that stall, their trousers down to their knees and the boy moving against her husband's bottom had been more than she had bargained for.

Janus should have known better. He had a brilliant mind and he had helped her hide her mistake by marrying her, but she could never accept him allowing himself to be buggered by the brother of the man who had impregnated her and left her. Not after she'd had to expend so much effort to put Emil in front of that firing squad.

Of course, she had had to kill Dagold. It would be reported to Berlin that the boy had attacked the Graf in a rage, killing him. She had merely performed a summary execution.

It had been exhilarating to stand over Dagold, pointing her pistol at his face, and have him looking up at her, his eyes pleading for his life. Janus had been yelling something at her but it hadn't mattered. She'd just put her finger against the trigger when she looked up and saw that damned English Baron standing there, his weapon pointing at her. She'd looked back down at the Jorsten boy and began to pull the trigger then.

And everything had gone black.

She'd awoken to heat. Unbelievable heat. The fires of hell had been her first thought. She'd barely been able to see but quickly understood that the stables were on fire. The stall she and Janus lay in was the centre of it, but flames had already spread everywhere. She remembered that the front of her husband's shirt had been bloody as the flame touched it. Blood had still trickled from his open mouth.

She had managed to crawl out of the stall. Somehow, she'd pulled herself to her feet and staggered to the door. She started towards the house. And that was the last she could remember - until the Waffen-SS soldier was covering her with a blanket.

Petersholme's bullet had only creased her skull, but it had left its mark. That one centimetre discolouration of her perfect skin just before and above her temple. The doctor told her that it would always be there. She was marked for life. Because of that damned Englishman.

Gisele von Kys would have Petersholme's head for that. He was coming to Paris which would only make her revenge that much easier.

She turned back to her dressing table and selected a shade of lip rouge that complimented her features perfectly.

It wasn't revenge that she wanted, she resolutely told herself. Not for her, even if that was part of it. The Englishman had interfered with her carrying out a perfectly legitimate execution of an undesirable. He had nearly killed her and she was an official of the party - that was enough to earn Petersholme a death sentence.

He had also stolen from Germany the child she'd brought into the world. And he had spied on Germany's rocket programme. His death would be an execution under the law. A legitimate execution. One that the Reichsführer himself would approve of.

She puckered her thick lips and leaned close to the mirror to ensure that she rouged them perfectly. She was both a Countess and an Obersturmbannführerin in the SS central administration - she had to be perfect so that German women would know how to mould themselves to what the new Germany required of them. Her lips needed to appear narrow and well-arched as was the German ideal.

She would take Obersturmführer Schmidt to Paris with her tomorrow then. Together, they would execute the English Baron. There, in France, of course. There was no reason to give the English any reason to rally their people to their puppet King.

Petersholme's death would be made to look like a robbery. The party had friends in France, people who would rule France when the Versailles Diktat was finally thrown in the mud where it belonged. They would help.

She smiled at the image of herself in the mirror. Perhaps, she could have a few moments alone with Petersholme before he died. He was a virile man and handsome - and Germanic too. Yes, she could enjoy his body before he died.

She dabbed at her lips. A sudden thought struck her then. Perhaps, she could kill him at the exact moment he ejaculated. He would have to be bound, and she would have to ride him.

That wasn't her favourite position. But, if a man was big enough in that department, it could be pleasurable. In this case, it would be absolutely necessary. The bastard was going to die. She was as sure of that as she was that Adolf Hitler would lead the Fatherland to even larger horizons of greatness.

When she had met Petersholme, at the party at Reichsführer Himmler's home, she had thought that he appeared to be sufficiently endowed. Well, she would find out. She smiled. She would be the last woman ever to do so.

She would have to retain absolute control of her emotions, of course. It would be very difficult - to reach her own orgasm and to kill at the same time. That would truly be sweet. She grinned widely. Yes. Very sweet. And she would have proven that she was the epitome of what the Führer intended to create out of the German race. At least she would have proven it to herself.

Her grin grew. Perhaps she could prove it to Obersturmführer Schmidt too. He could watch. Discreetly, of course. He'd be there to protect her. But, then, she would be assured that Petersholme's execution was carried out, even if she failed to be as strong as she thought she was. She wondered if she should plan on copulating with him then - before the body of Janus' English friend. She wondered how big the Waffen-SS man was where it counted.

She stood and stepped to the chest of drawers. She turned back to the maid just as the other woman finished smoothing the bed covers. "Come," she told her as her fingers closed on the undergarment. "Help me on with my corset."

* * *

That afternoon, Obersturmführer Stefan Schmidt watched himself in the mirror as he dressed slowly. He enjoyed the feel of the dark grey wool of his uniform trousers against his legs and the soft cotton of the blouse caressing his chest. The Waffen-SS was the best thing that had ever happened to him. It had pulled him out of Essen and was showing him the power of the new order.

He had come a long way since he was twelve and learnt there were horizons far greater than wondering if his mother had kept enough money from his father to feed them through the week. The Party had been there at each step along the way to show him what could be his in the new Germany. All he'd had to do was keep himself focused.

He snorted as he buttoned his collar and reached for his tie. He'd remained focused these past nine years all right. Thanks to Gauleiter Riet, he had.

He had passed the exams and entered gymnasium, the first member of his family to do so. He had graduated even, thanks again to the Gauleiter and other Party members who had tutored him. He had even learnt to speak properly - his accent was still Rhenish, but now it was middle class instead of that of undesignated workers from the mean streets near the river.

He remembered those mean streets. His house one of a row a block long. His family'd shared the always smelly communal toilets that marched along the back of those houses, shared them with the row of houses that faced the street behind. Everyone on that square block could hear his father beating him or his mother in one of his drunken rages.

He grinned as he smoothed his tie down the front of his blouse. There hadn't been any more drunken rages from his father - not after Gauleiter Riet had the SA send a squad to meet the man outside his favourite pub. They had enough food after that. Schmidt had still been twelve then. His father had had the good grace to contract cancer after that - and died quickly.

He pulled on his uniform jacket and buttoned it. The buttons shone in the electric light of his room. Becoming a Waffen-SS officer had been the best thing that had ever happened to him, all right. Thanks again to Gauleiter Riet.

He nodded as he took his greatcoat from the coatrack. Definitely, the greatest thing, thanks to the Gauleiter. He turned again to the mirror. His lips pursed as he studied his reflection.

Gauleiter Riet had shown him how to use his looks to get ahead. Stefan suspected he would need everything he'd learnt with his mentor - along with all of his intelligence as well. God, what a cow!

He'd never forced himself to bed anyone as fat as she was before. He hoped that he would be able to perform when he did let her get him in her bed.

The Gräfin wanted his body. Her sexual interest coloured their every encounter, from the moment he'd reported to her straight from officer training school to his call that morning. He wished that he had been attached to any other officer but was determined to make the best of the situation he'd found himself in.

She was a decadent aristocrat, this Gisele von Kys. An aristocratic predator like those who'd given the Reich the Versailles Diktat. And she was bloated like a Zeppelin. After the coming war, Schmidt was convinced that the Party would have another purge.

That was the only way to rid itself of the aristocratic leeches so that real Germans would lead the new world. The Gräfin von Kys would never be a real Obersturmbannführer. Until then, he would bite his lip and do what was necessary to stay on the Gräfin's good side.

He stepped through the door of his flat and bounded down the three flights of stairs to the clean, crisp winter air of Berlin.

* * *

The Gräfin von Kys stood at the window of her office and gazed out at the Reichskanzlei lighted against the night sky. She was dressed in uniform, her hands held behind her back. Obersturmführer Schmidt waited in the outer office for Horst Müller to arrive.

She had been assured earlier in the afternoon by the SD's officer of the day that she would have French sympathisers to help her get to Lord Petersholme. An agent, a mole unknown to the English, had been found in Coventry, near Petersholme's estate, to aid Müller there. She nodded absently to the building across the night from her. She would have revenge on all fronts for what had happened at Schloß Kys. Petersholme and that schwuler Dagold Jorsten would be dead and Wilhelm would be back in the Fatherland.

A knock brought her thoughts back to the office. "Come!" she called as she pivoted to face the opening door. Horst Müller took three steps into the room, came to attention, clicked his heels, and raised his right arm in salute. She studied him for a moment. He looked good. Virile. Yes, grizzly but definitely virile. "Sieg heil," she returned his salute perfunctorily and stepped behind her desk as Schmidt entered the room and shut the door.

  "Be seated," she told both men and sat at her desk. "We won't stand on formality here," she continued. "We're here to carry out the party's needs to the best of each of our ability." She smiled at the Hauptscharführer. "Müller-"

He was out of his chair instantly, ramrod straight. "Jawohl, Obersturmbannführerin?" Gisele von Kys thought that he was a perfect picture of the Germany that was to come.

She chuckled. "You'll have to force yourself to be less German for the assignment I have for you, Müller. Be at ease, faithful one." She watched him relax. "And be seated, please."

"I've already spoken to our documents office and you'll be able to pick up your papers tomorrow morning, along with your tickets. You leave tomorrow for England. You go as a civilian. You won't wish to call attention to yourself or the service."

The Hauptscharführer arched a brow slightly, consciously ensuring with the gesture that the Obersturmbannführerin understood that he accepted her order and was merely waiting for her instruction.

"There, you are to kill that Drecksau my late husband was so fond of-" She watched the man before her nod slightly, the barest smile touching his lips. "And return the kleiner Graf to the Fatherland."

"There will be someone to help me, Obersturmbannführerin - to find my way around?"

"You will be met in London by one of the Fatherland's supporters-" She paused and looked down at her notes at the strange sounding name. "James Crooksall is his name - you had him in a class five years ago? Some class on military training that you taught for the Waffen-SS?"

Müller frowned as his hand rose to cup the back of his neck, the palm of his hand nuzzling the stubble that was his hair. "Crooksall?" he mumbled, attempting to place the name with a face.

"I am assured that he will remember you, Horst." Gisele von Kys told him, dismissing the possibility that either man would fail to recognise the other out of hand. He will accompany you to Coventry from where the two of you will go to a place called Northamptonshire, there in England."

A quick smile crossed the Hauptscharführer's face. "I remember him now," he told her. "He couldn't help but slaughter our language every time he opened his mouth. I suspect that he does little better with his own language."

She chuckled. "The English Volk do slaughter their language. Only their upper classes can speak it intelligently. Be that as it may, this Crooksall is yours to command while you carry out your mission, and will provide you an escape route to the English Channel. The Navy has already dispatched a submarine that will be off the coast near Dover on Friday-"

"This U-boat the Navy sends - I will know exactly where it will be waiting for me and the kleiner Graf on Friday?"

"Your control is your old Colonel, Müller. He will meet you at half past six tomorrow morning at his office and go over the specifics with you. You can pick up your ticket and papers on the first floor of this building after a quarter to eight." She smiled at him. "And your train leaves the Bahnhof at nine thirty. You'll have plenty of time."

Horst Müller shifted in his chair, preparing himself to be dismissed. "I'll need to pack, Obersturmbannführerin."

"Of course." Gisele von Kys nodded to him. "Be on your way then."

The Hauptscharführer pushed himself out of his chair, smoothly coming to attention again before her. "Heil Hitler," he saluted her.

She raised her hand to return the salute. "Good night, Müller. We'll see you aboard the train in the morning-"

He looked puzzled. "You and the Obersturmführer are coming to England as well?"

She smiled. "No. Not to England. Obersturmführer Schmidt and I have business in Paris. Good night."

Both she and Schmidt watched as Horst Müller marched to the door and let himself out. "A good man," Schmidt observed after they were alone.

Von Kys sat back in her chair, allowing herself to relax. "The security officer with our embassy will meet us in Paris upon our arrival," she told him.

"Are you saying that we will travel as officers of State Security or of the Waffen-SS then, Gräfin?"

"Make us both a whisky, Stefan." She smiled tiredly at him.

"We should pack uniforms?" he asked as he moved to the sideboard. He opened a decanter and poured. He brought both glasses to her desk and sat in the chair that the Hauptscharführer had occupied. She still had not answered him.

"I think not. Yes, we go in our capacity as agents of the SS. We meet our security officer in Paris who will recognise us as agents of the Reichsführer's office. We'll do nothing to hide that from him." She sat forward and reached for her drink. She leaned back with the glass of whisky in her hand.

"There, however ... There, we'll become something else. We will meet French sympathisers and shall need to appear French to the casual observer." She sipped the whisky and studied the man sitting across from her. "You are Rhenish, as I am - can you speak what fools call the language of love?"

"Un peu-" He held up his thumb and forefinger, separating them less than a centimetre. "I grew up in the Rhineland but my parents are Hessian. French was barely better than detestable." He snorted. "There is no way that I could present myself as French, Gräfin."

She held up her hand. "Please. Don't be so formal, Stefan. National Socialism is already making the old aristocracy increasingly obsolete."

She sipped at her whisky. "You know that your duty will include helping to kill a man on this mission, don't you? If I fail for any reason, you'll have to kill this Englishman."

Schmidt gulped his whisky. "I had thought that would be so, Gräfin," he said, consciously keeping his voice level.

Von Kys had noticed the faint hesitation but said nothing. She filed it away in her memory, however. It could be a useful tool if the youth balked at her orders later - or at her other plans for him. She smiled as she guessed that he was a sexual virgin and again imagined him naked and aroused. She would make a man of him - a complete man - of that she was sure. Stefan Schmidt would be a true son of the new Germany when she was through with him.

His sexual education would have to wait a little longer, she decided, regretting her decision. His passion would be heightened when they were into the hunt, however. That would be the time for her to carry him all of the way into manhood - when his blood flowed its hottest. She smiled at him and softened her voice. "Go home and pack, Stefan. Comfortable clothes for the countryside. Tomorrow, you give yourself to your destiny as a son of the Fatherland."