The Killers 02: The Winston Churchill Murder

By Klaus Netzen

Summer, 1940. Britain stands alone against the Nazi forces gathering just across the Channel. Invasion seems imminent. In those months of the Battle of Britain, with the Blitz becoming a nightly horror in the major cities, one man represents the unquenchable spirit of England. Winston Churchill, the recently appointed Prime Minister.
The German leaders hatch their scheme—kill Churchill and the heart will be torn from England. Their plans reach John Standish—leader of ‘The Killers’. After their tragic adventures in Paris and Warsaw (as told in To Win And To Lose) this secret group of criminals and ex-criminals again combine against the Nazis, with the vital aim of saving the Prime Minister from assassination. The trail of murder leads Standish to occupied Holland and back to bomb-torn London for the chilling climax. On the way, there is a little love. But, where Standish goes, there is always death. Bloody and bizarre!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Piccadilly
• Release date: May 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215313312

Klaus Netzen

Klaus Netzen was the pseudonym of Laurence James.

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The Home of Great

War Fiction!

Summer, 1940. Britain stands alone against the Nazi forces gathering just across the Channel. Invasion seems imminent. In those months of the Battle of Britain, with the Blitz becoming a nightly horror in the major cities, one man represents the unquenchable spirit of England. Winston Churchill, the recently appointed Prime Minister.

The German leaders hatch their scheme—kill Churchill and the heart will be torn from England. Their plans reach John Standish—leader of ‘The Killers’. After their tragic adventures in Paris and Warsaw (as told in To Win And To Lose) this secret group of criminals and ex-criminals again combine against the Nazis, with the vital aim of saving the Prime Minister from assassination. The trail of murder leads Standish to occupied Holland and back to bomb-torn London for the chilling climax. On the way, there is a little love. But, where Standish goes, there is always death. Bloody and bizarre!

THE KILLERS 2: THE WINSTON CHURCHILL MURDER

By Klaus Netzen

First published by Mayflower Books in 1974

Copyright © Klaus Netzen 1974, 2023

This electronic edition published May 2023

Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by means (electronic, digital, optical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book / Text © Piccadilly Publishing

Series Editor: Ben Bridges

Published by arrangement with the author’s estate.

Visit www.piccadillypublishing.org to read more about our books

For Elizabeth, who makes it all worthwhile.

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

About the Author

Chapter One

THE CHASE WAS nearly at an end. The late afternoon sun, dropping between the twin peaks to his right, splashed briefly off the dappled pool in the valley, sending shafts of broken light in his direction. He muttered a curse, and edged slowly to his left. His fingers inched over the leaf-scattered floor of the forest, brushing away any dry twigs that might snap and reveal his position to his prey.

Silently, he ground his elbow through the mould until he had it settled in a small nest—round and firm—an ideal rest for his arm. Then, slowly and painfully, he dragged the heavy weapon forward in his right hand, sliding the cold barrel into the left hand, curling his fingers round it. The right thumb eased the safety catch off. Brushing his hair out of his eyes with an irritated gesture, he tugged the bolt back, then pushed it forward, feeling the resistance as the greased cartridge entered the breech.

Where the hell was...? There! Waiting in the shade of the bushes by the water. Cunning devil! Must have sensed that there was danger. But, he must have reckoned it would come from the other side. Not from up this face.

High above the hunter and the hunted, a vapour trail smeared across the cloudless sky, as a lone Spitfire weaved and dived in an exuberant mock combat. The roar of the thousand horse power, Rolls-Royce Merlin engine as it whirled past at over three hundred and sixty miles per hour sent the jays chattering angrily from their nests in a flurry of movement.

He used the distraction to bring the rifle up to his shoulder, pushing the tip of the barrel out from the brown foliage. Eyes squinting with concentration, he watched his quarry, half-expecting to see that the noise had frightened him off. No, there he was, still in the same place.

The blade of the foresight wavered a little as he pressed his cheek against the polished wooden stock. His left eye closed and the right eye peered over the aperture battle-sight with the vertical leaf. Unconsciously, he grimaced, pulling his lips back over his teeth. Something over four hundred yards. A body shot with the chance of not hitting anything vital, or the more difficult head shot with the chance of a total miss?

Standish’s mind went back to Bisley before the war, the weather had been good that summer too, though not as good as this year. The Met chaps said 1940 had been the best summer in living memory. He’d been pipped for the King’s Prize by that young major from one of the Guards’ Regiments. Heard he’d been killed at Dunkirk, trying to get some wounded to the boats. Waste of a fine shot.

Finger on the trigger, taking up the pressure. Head shot, he finally decided. It had taken a long time to get this particular fellow in range of a rifle, and he wasn’t going to risk a mere wound. Squeeze! The .303 bullet took just half a second to travel the distance.

The aim was good, and the victim literally never knew what hit him. The bullet struck home just below the right eye, angling downwards and sideways through the palate and tearing out a chunk as large as a man’s fist from the upper part of the throat.

Standish was on his feet before the echoes of the shot had bounced back to him from the forbidding crags of Ben Machuil opposite. Running down, leaping from rock to rock on the treacherous, heather-covered slopes, the short magazine Lee Enfield held tight to his shoulder by the canvas strap.

The thrashing of the body that so often follows a mortal wound had ceased by the time he got to the bottom of the hill, and he paused for a moment to locate where the body had fallen. Quickly, oblivious to anything else now the kill had been made, he worked his way round the small pool, splashing through the shallows until he reached the point where his victim had been standing.

The bushes were dappled with bright blood, and Standish pushed them aside to get at the corpse. He had drawn his leaf-bladed hunting knife, in case his shot had not been true. But, there was no need.

In the small clearing, lay the body of a superb stag, at least a twenty pointer, with a buzzing cluster of flies already feeding at the gouts of blood that marred the noble head. For a moment, he stood there looking down at the carcass, feeling a passing regret that something as fine should have been butchered. He noted with interest that his shot had been spot-on accurate. Unslinging his rifle, he knelt down and prepared to disembowel the beast.

‘Hande hoch, Herr Standish.’

He froze, instinctively aware of his rifle, just out of reach. His knife was designed for throwing, but he would have to turn and throw off one knee, not even knowing exactly where his enemy was. The voice sounded a little to the left—about ten yards away. There was only one thing to do in that kind of situation. The words of Lobkowitz came to him. ‘If a man needs to move too fast, it is often better that he does not move at all.’

So, Standish remained still, making a gesture of putting his hands to shoulder height, keeping careful hold of the bloody knife. Maybe the man would come closer. Maybe.

‘Not a bad shot with that blunderbuss, John.’

Rising slowly to his feet, Standish smiled. ‘You bastard, Andy. You know my doctor advised me to avoid sudden shocks like that. Anyway, I’d like to have seen you do better with that bloody Garand some of your lads have. It’s a lazy soldier’s weapon, Andy. And the action sticks when it’s cold or wet. I know, I’ve field-tested it. How’s the leg?’

Andy Ballantine. Short, with black curly hair. First generation American, whose parents had been caught by the outbreak of war when visiting his mother’s sister back home in Latvia. He never talked about what had happened out there, but both his mother and his father had failed to return from that holiday. As a consequence, Andy was a committed enemy of the Axis forces. As a child he had run with the wrong crowd in the tough immigrant Cicero area of Chicago, and had met and known many of the top gangsters of the era. His quick tongue and even faster knife had made him a welcome friend and a dangerous enemy.

He had quit the business in the early thirties and now happily ran a small bookshop on New York’s east side. That was, until the death of his parents. Then, he had picked up a couple of old contacts who he could trust. What was more important was that they could trust him. He had heard whispers about the existence of an underground organization of criminals and ex-criminals, who combined together to fight the Nazi peril in any way they could.

‘The Killers’—that was their name—could move where regular troops would have no chance, and could strike at any man in any country. Andy had finally been approached, through third and fourth parties, and had been thoroughly sounded out. Then, and only then, was he allowed to meet the leader of The Killers. The Honourable John Standish.

Their first meeting had been a little tense, for Standish maintained the image of a huntin’, shootin’ and fishin’ country squire, and his estates in the north backed this up. But, the money for those estates had come from some of the finest pieces of forging the world had ever seen.

For his part, Standish had not been impressed by the fast-talking little American Jew, but he had come highly-recommended by men whose word he valued. So, he told him a certain amount, and tested him out on one or two unimportant operations. Ballantine had come through with flying colours, and there had been a more major job, at short notice.

Andy had managed that with a brilliance that stumbled near the edge of genius, and so the Killers acquired another member. The late Spring of 1940 had seen Standish involved with Andy in a perilous operation a long way from his usual haunts, with some nasty killings and more than a few tight corners. It had ended well—finally—but Andy had come out of it with a wound to his leg that had nearly left him on crutches for the rest of his life.

Out of hospital weeks earlier than any of the surgeons had predicted, Ballantine had spent the first two weeks of August recuperating on the estates of a Scottish nobleman who also happened to owe Standish a few discreet favours from before the war. The superb weather and some good food—the Duke had no time for the unpleasant fact of rationing that was making so many folks’ lives miserable—had helped his recovery, and he had been off that day on a long hike. Or, so he had said.

‘You said you were going to try and reach Inverhuilish up along the river. What happened?’

Andy’s face crinkled in a grin. ‘I did. But there seemed a whole load of nothing up there, so I got my ass in gear and thought I’d look in on the great white hunter.’

Standish was unable to keep a note of disbelief out of his voice. ‘Good God, man! That’s all of twelve miles over some of the roughest country in these parts. How did the leg take it?’

‘Not too badly. Anyway, you know I come from a long line of long-legged, long-breathed frontiersmen. My grandpa was the first rabbi west of the Pecos! Seriously, John, the leg was O.K. No problems at all. Jesus, but that’s a big bastard. Seems a shame to gun it down.’

Standish’s knife was already slitting further along the line of the stag’s stomach, and he answered without looking up. ‘They have no natural enemies here, Andy, so we have to cull them every now and again. Anyway, how could you possibly have enjoyed Mrs. Maconochie’s venison stew without the venison to go into it?’

‘That hart, dear heart, will never be the same.’

Startled by the quote, if quote it was, Standish looked up, cursing as he nicked his thumb on the knife. ‘Blast! Where the hell did you learn that? What is it? Marlowe?’

The little man laughed, pleased to have surprised the unflappable Englishman. ‘Dekker. Thomas Dekker. I think it’s from a play of his called Shoemaker’s Holiday. How about that, you skinny bastard. Eh! You didn’t know I used to go out with a classy dame who majored in Eng. Lit., did you? She was amazing, John. She had this trick, when we were in the sack, of rolling right over, so that her head was down near ... who’s that?’

Looking where Andy was pointing, Standish saw a figure leaping towards them through the knee-high heather, waving his arms and shouting.

‘It’s Brown. He’s one of the duke’s ghillies. Either his sporran’s caught fire, or he has some important news for us. Hello there, Wilhelm!’

Ballantine did a lightning double-take. ‘Wilhelm!?’

The man was nearly on them, so Standish whispered out of the corner of his mouth. ‘Yes. Don’t laugh at it, whatever you do. He’s incredibly sensitive about it. His mother’s one great moment in life was when she was in London for the only time, and the Kaiser happened to be here for some visit or other. He saw the good Mrs. Brown, and twirled his moustache at her. She never got over it and called her only son after him.’ Panting