Cobwebs fingered Wingate’s face. He swiped at them impatiently and followed Costi through another doorway which opened out into the rear of the garrison’s motor pool. The garrison building’s cellar door was visible ahead of them, most of its front panel covered with vines, its one window caked with mud. The door did not look as if it had been used in years. After the mayor’s eviction by the Germans, it seemed, there was no further use made of this clandestine route.

  The fact that the cellar door had not been used posed a problem. It was obvious to Wingate that the vines would have to be cut away and the door jimmied open—all of this without a sound and as quickly as possible. Wingate indicated to the others that he wanted them to hang back near the wall while he checked the door out.

  Crouching down beside Wingate, Kowalski said, “Let me go with you, Captain. I used to have a habit of getting into and out of places where I wasn’t exactly welcome.”

  “Come ahead then.”

  The two slipped across the parking lot to the door. The vines were as thick or thicker than they had appeared from the wall. While Wingate slashed at them with his knife, Kowalski, searching about in the ground along the wall, came up with a short iron pipe. At once he set to work prying back the door while Wingate continued to cut through the thick network of vines.

  The vines were clear of the door and Kowalski had broken through the lock when two German sentries appeared from around the corner of the building. They had heard nothing and were not alert for trouble. From the tenor of their conversation, Wingate realized the two were simply looking for a quiet place to chat and smoke away from their officers.

  Wingate and Kowalski had frozen the moment the two sentries appeared; then they had flattened themselves against the door. They were not visible to the Germans unless the two sentries stepped away from the wall and looked in their direction. The difficulty was, of course, that Wingate could not count on the Germans staying put.

  Tapping Kowalski to alert him, Wingate stepped up from the short flight of stairs fronting the door and in his best, most authoritative, German snarled, “Achtung!”

  The two sentries immediately sprang to heel-clicking attention as they tossed their offending cigarettes into the darkness. Stiff as ramrods on the instant, they stared straight ahead of them into the darkness as Wingate and Kowalski approached. Striding swiftly past the first German, Wingate pulled up in front of the second one and slammed the steel plate at the end of his Sten’s stock up into the hapless sentry’s face. As the man collapsed forward onto him, Wingate buried his knife into his gut, then stepped away. Quivering like a fish, the German struck the ground without a word, writhed for a moment, then lay still.

  Kowalski had been equally efficient. With his powerful right hand he had throttled his German, while he plunged his blade deep into the man’s gut with the other. Both sentries now lay dead at their feet, much too exposed for safety. Wingate took hold of his German’s collar and dragged him to the wall, Kowalski following with the German he had killed.

  When Wingate reached the wall, he found only Lubbock and Costi crouching in the darkness.

  “Where’s Socrates?” Wingate demanded of Costi.

  “When he saw those two sentries appear, he turned and fled back through the wall.”

  “And you didn’t stop the son of a bitch?”

  “I could have tackled him,” Costi replied sarcastically. “We wouldn’t have made too much noise—thrashing about on the ground in front of those sentries.”

  “He was gone before we knew it,” Lubbock explained unhappily. “The poor fucker shit his pants when those two German sentries came out.”

  “Give us a hand with these two,” Wingate said. “We’ll dump them on the other side of the wall.”

  As soon as this grisly chore was accomplished, Wingate led them back to the cellar door. Grabbing hold of the door’s edge with both powerful hands, Kowalski yanked it open far enough to allow the four of them to slip through into the basement. A dim, narrow stairway led up to the first floor. They ascended it, pushed open the door at the top and found themselves just outside a bathroom. So far, the floor plan was precisely as Socrates had represented it to them, which meant they should find McCauley up the second flight of stairs and to the rear.

  Climbing this second flight, Wingate checked out his Sten. Like the three other Stens, his was a Mark II and was equipped with a silencer. In addition to their grenades, Wingate had been able to fashion eight Lewis bombs, two for each man. The pencil fuses they had with them were set for a half-hour. They were intent on taking McCauley back with them—and leaving eight devastating eggs behind to hatch.

  The lighting was dim on the second floor. His back to Wingate, a single German sentry was slumped in a chair at the head of the stairs, facing down the hallway that led to the rear of the building. Wingate was not as quiet as he should have been. The German turned his head slightly as Wingate stepped toward him and would have uttered something if Wingate’s wire had not closed as swiftly as it did about the man’s throat. There was no outcry as the man settled lifelessly and slid soundlessly off the chair.

  Stepping over the body, Wingate indicated a closet door to Lubbock, who promptly dragged the body into the closet and closed the door on him. Rounding the corridor a second or two later, Wingate saw a German soldier coming out of a bathroom further down the hall. He was dressed only in his skivvies and he looked very sleepy. His sandy hair was in his eyes and he was a good foot taller than Kowalski. He pulled up, astonished. Before he could utter a word, however, Wingate gave him a short burst from his Sten.

  The silencer worked to perfection, but it was not noiseless, and the blond giant fell heavily to the floor. Ahead of Wingate a door was flung open and a fully dressed German officer strode into the hallway. His back to Wingate, he paused in shock when he saw his fallen comrade and reached for the whistle that hung about his neck. Wingate reached over his shoulder and yanked the whistle out of the man’s grasp; then he buried his knife into the man’s back clear up to the hilt. The officer gasped, turned slowly, his wide eyes fixed in astonishment on Wingate, then collapsed to the floor.

  Wingate grabbed the dead man’s collar and flung him back into the office. “Stash the other one in there, too,” Wingate told Kowalski, as he continued down the hallway, heading toward another corner, beyond which was the room where McCauley was supposed to be held.

  He slowed and peered cautiously around the corner. Two sentries were sitting side by side, their backs to a door, MP-40s in their laps. They were not asleep. In full uniform, they looked astonishingly alert for the hour. Wingate could barely hear them as they spoke softly to each other. They were discussing the persistently unfriendly attitude of the local women to their presence and were unhappy at having to frequent the brothel provided by their commandant.

  Wingate turned and pointed to Lubbock, then indicated his Sten with a single pat. Lubbock nodded. Wingate stepped boldly into view. As the two sentries snatched up their submachine guns, Wingate and Lubbock cut them down with one short burst between them. Wingate ran to the door and hit it, shoulder down. It slammed open.

  In the darkness Wingate could barely make out what appeared to be a cot in the corner with a pale form huddled on it.

  “Cover the hallway,” Wingate told Kowalski, as he hurried to the cot, found a lamp on a nightstand beside it and turned on the light.

  Wingate was bent over the cot when the dim bulb winked on. What he saw stunned him. It was McCauley, all right, what was left of him. The sergeant was unconscious, sleeping fitfully in a miasma of stale vomit. The fingers on his right hand looked as if they had been nibbled off by ravenous rats. Long strips of skin had been ripped from his chest and legs, leaving raw wounds only recently scabbed over in spots. There seemed to be no place left on the sergeant’s body that was not either discolored from brutal beatings, or festering from raw wounds.

  Sickened, Wingate straightened, convinced he had seen the worst of it. That was when he glanced more closely down at McCauley’s bloodstained shorts and realized that there was nothing left between the big sergeant’s legs but a blood-soaked emptiness.

  Wingate nearly cried aloud in his rage. Clenching his fists, he turned back to Costi and Lubbock. “Go plant those bombs while Kowalski and I get McCauley out of here. Any kraut shows his head, blow it off. Don’t forget, you’re carrying grenades, too. When we pull out of this town, I don’t want a stone left standing in this place or a kraut able to move. Hop to it!”

  “You are insane, Captain,” protested Costi. “There are only four of us!”

  “You planning on disobeying a direct order, Costi?”

  Costi shrugged, turned and left the room with Lubbock.

  Wingate turned back to the cot and leaned over McCauley. “Sergeant,” Wingate whispered. “Can you hear me? It’s Wingate. We’ve come to take you out of here.”

  McCauley stirred. He was like a man returning to a nightmare. His eyes, full of sudden pain or the memory of pain, opened cautiously, fearfully. He did not appear to recognize Wingate. A dry tongue came out to flick at cracked, raw lips. As Wingate leaned closer, the sergeant winced and recoiled into the bed.

  And then he saw who it was. The ghost of a smile flickered on his ravaged face.

  “What kept you, Captain?” he said, his voice a raw rasp that Wingate barely recognized.

  “Came as soon as I heard.”

  “How’s Sweeney? Did you get him off this piece of shit all right?”

  “He’s gone,” Wingate said. “Can you stand?”

  “Shit, Captain. I can’t do a goddamn thing anymore.” Tears born of rage and helpless fury squeezed out of the sergeant’s eyes. “But I didn’t tell them a fucking thing. Honest, Captain. I knew what they wanted, but I didn’t tell them.”

  “I was never worried you would. See if you can stand up.” Wingate glanced back at Kowalski. “Give us a hand here.”

  McCauley swung his feet carefully off the cot. He peered carefully down at his feet as he did so, as if he could see them but not feel them. Swiftly, Wingate planted a Lewis bomb under the cot, then helped Kowalski to pull McCauley upright.

  The sergeant groaned and nearly collapsed forward into Wingate’s arms. Wingate held him up, then swung him between himself and Kowalski. With McCauley helping as much as he could, the two men guided the sergeant out of the room and down the corridor. Wingate left Kowalski and McCauley only long enough to plant his last bomb in the office across the hall from the room where McCauley had been held.

  When they reached the stairway, Wingate heard the muffled chatter of Sten submachine guns from below, followed almost immediately after by the thump of fragmentation grenades. Swiftly, Wingate hustled the nearly unconscious McCauley down the stairs, aware of a growing tumult behind him. There was more gunfire and more detonations. As Wingate and Kowalski reached the basement and started out the cellar door, they heard Lubbock and Costi just behind them. Lubbock’s curse was followed by the sudden chatter of a Sten. A moment later came the powerful detonations of still more grenades. The ceiling over their heads shuddered, showering plaster and dust down upon them as they squeezed out through the cellar door.

  A moment later Lubbock and Costi joined them outside the building. With McCauley somewhat more able to help himself, the five made it through the wall and the shed beyond without immediate pursuit.

  The long, roundabout course they were forced to take to get back to the bakery, however, was almost too much for McCauley. He was nearly unconscious when they finally put him down in the baker’s bedroom. The wife of the baker was not entirely happy with the arrangement, but she seemed prepared to help all she could—until she got a good look at the sergeant. Then, with a despairing wail, she flung her shawl over her head and fled the room. A chastened, fearful Socrates insinuated himself into the bedroom. Anxious to make amends for his earlier flight and his wife’s squeamishness, he approached Wingate, wringing his hands, his face twisted into an obsequious smile.

  “That woman, she will be beaten. I will see to it,” he whined. “This house is your house. All I have is yours. Please, see to your wounded comrade. You are safe here. I promise you.”

  “Keep an eye out. Watch that building across the street. And don’t show any lights. Is that clear?”

  Socrates nodded eagerly and vanished from the bedroom. Wingate brought up a chair and sat down beside the sergeant. The man had now passed out completely. Wingate was almost certain that McCauley was not going to be able to travel. As he peered down at McCauley’s face, he was aware of the uproar emanating from the German garrison across the street. The grenades had set off fires and the cries of Germans trying to direct the fire-fighting effort carried clearly across the street to the small bakery. Wingate glanced at his watch. It would not be long before the first of their Lewis bombs detonated.

  Wingate was aware of Kowalski and Lubbock standing just behind him. The two looked silently upon the ruined sergeant, whose wounds were visible even in this dim back room, where the only light came from a lamp that had been placed on the floor near the bed’s headboard.

  “My God, Captain,” said Kowalski softly, “what did those bastards do to him, anyway?”

  “Anything they wanted,” Wingate replied bitterly. “But he didn’t crack. He told them nothing.”

  “You can’t be sure of that, Captain,” said Costi.

  Wingate turned to glance at the man. Costi was standing by a window, his arms folded arrogantly across his chest.

  “I’m sure of it, Costi. I know this man.”

  “Your loyalty is touching. But who else could have given the Germans those coordinates? How else could the SS have been waiting for that submarine to surface?”

  “Someone told them, all right. But it wasn’t McCauley.”

  Wingate turned back to the sergeant. Leaning close to him, he whispered his name. There was no response the first time, but when Wingate repeated the sergeant’s name a second time, McCauley’s eyes opened. The man seemed to be pulling himself from a dark place.

  “Can you hear me, Sergeant?” Wingate asked.

  McCauley nodded.

  “Who else knew of that rendezvous besides you and the radioman?”

  “Costi,” McCauley replied, his voice barely audible. “He was standing with me when I read the message to the Limey.”

  “How come? What was he doing there with you?”

  McCauley tried to chuckle, but gave it up. “Hell, Captain. The little son of a bitch saved my bacon. Him and a couple of his guerrillas saved me from a German ambush. Johnny on the spot, he was.”

  “So he stuck with you when you entered Clive’s camp.”

  “Sure. Why not, Captain? He’s one helluva fighter. You seen him in action.”

  “Yes. I’ve seen him in action.”

  McCauley tried to moisten his dry lips. “What’s the matter, Captain? Why you asking about Costi?”

  “He says you broke—that you were the one who gave the rendezvous away.”

  “Gave it away?”

  “The Germans were waiting for us on the coast, Sergeant. Four Stukas sank the submarine. Sweeney and one of Zervas’s guerrillas were killed.”

  “Sweeney didn’t make it?”

  “He volunteered to serve as a rear guard.”

  “Oh, shit.”

  “You didn’t break, Sergeant?”

  With startling strength, McCauley reached out with his left hand and grabbed Wingate’s shirt. Pulling Wingate close, his eyes wide, pleading, he cried, “No, Captain. I didn’t. I told them garbage—gave them anything I could to get them off the track. But they always knew I was lying. I never told them what they wanted. I swear. I swear to God, Captain.”

  “I believe you, Sergeant.”

  McCauley’s hand dropped away from Wingate’s shirt. Panting slightly from the exertion, he looked up at Wingate. “Then who, Captain? Who told those bastards? I mean, after all I went through ...”

  Wingate turned to look at Costi, as did Lubbock and Kowalski. What Wingate saw should have surprised him, but it didn’t.

  Costi was no longer standing with his arms crossed. Instead, he had his Sten trained on the three of them, a malignant gleam in his dark eyes.

  “I am going to have to end this touching scene, I am afraid,” said Costi. “Better me than the Germans.”

  Costi yanked back the cocking lever on his Sten. The man was obviously not the least bit reluctant to pull the trigger on them all.

  “Why, Costi?” Wingate demanded. “What crazy game are you playing? The krauts are your enemy and ours, but you and Dmitri—you’ve both sold out to them. Is Stephanos in on this with you?”

  “No, Stephanos is not—but he would understand, if I were to tell him. You must not take this personally, Wingate. It is not you I was after when I told the Germans of your rendezvous with that submarine.”

  “It was Alexis you wanted killed.”

  “Alexis and his band of royalist guerrillas.”

  “You’re a traitor, Costi.”

  “Yes, I suppose by your narrow nationalist standards, that’s what I am. Your kind is forever being hoodwinked by the folly of nationalism. As a result, you will never be able to understand the power, the irresistible power of international Communism, nor the fierce resolve—the iron necessity that dictates our every move.”

  “Save me your dialectics, Costi. You Communists are just the other side of the fascist coin. Call it what you will, you and your kind march to the same beat as the Nazi storm troopers. We’ve got a general who knows that perfectly well.”

  “Ah, yes. Patton. It is a shame he will never be taken seriously, at least not by his own side.”

  Wingate had been stalling on purpose, praying for something that would distract Costi long enough to give Wingate a chance. It came when the first of their Lewis bombs detonated in the garrison across the street. So powerful was the blast that the baker’s small cottage seemed to shake from its foundations. A picture came loose and slid down the wall to the floor, its edge striking with a crack as loud as a gunshot.

 

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