Sleeper agent, p.14
Sleeper Agent, page 14
Two large tears welled up in Ilse’s eyes, brimmed and slowly ran down her cheeks, turned into drops of mother-of-pearl by the faint light Suddenly she seized Tom’s hand. She brought it to her lips. She kissed it “Thank you!” she whispered. And she was gone.
For a while Tom stood quiet, silent. Alone. He felt empty, in turmoil—and yet at peace. For how long?
He had wanted her so much. So very much. He lay down on his bed. He knew he would not be able to sleep. Not for a long while. He tried to analyze himself. Coldly. Clinically. His body had taken in a damned good-sized shot of adrenalin. It would take hours to absorb. But he had not taken the strain and exertion of the last few days into account. In less than twenty minutes he was deep in a fitful sleep.
He knew without turning around that it was she. Ilse. Lying in bed beside him. He reached his hand back. She was soft. And warm. And silken. He turned to her.
Her skin was luminous, shimmering in the silvery light She smiled at him. She whispered, “Tom . . .”
He held her. He felt her lips against his. Her naked breasts pressed against him. He thought he would burst asunder. His eyes sought her lovely face—and he recoiled! It was Julie’s face. Julie. It stared up at him. Ghastly gray. Cold. Hard. Hateful. He tried to pull himself away.
She clung to him.
He grew frightened. Desperately he fought to tear himself from her embrace, but her arms were like steel bands welded across his back, her legs held his in an iron grip. He squirmed. He struggled.
She laughed. A cruel, scornful laugh that shrieked in his ears.
He screwed his eyes shut. He tried to close his ears. In vain. He still saw her. He still heard her. He cringed in horror.
Abruptly the mocking laughter stopped.
He opened his eyes. He looked down upon the sweet face of Ilse. He felt her hands gently stroke the back of his neck. He sobbed.
His want, his need for release, reborn, washed over him, banishing all else. He felt himself melt into her. His whole being drained exultantly into hers.
Her arms encircled him. Tighter . . . tighter.
He could no longer breathe. He tried to call out to her. He could not. He could not utter a sound. He shivered in terror. He fought against the icy embrace in desperate impotence. The force that was strangling his very life would not let go.
His mind shrieked in abject panic. Ilse! Julie! Help me! Help me! Help! Hilfe! Hilfe! German? German?
He chilled. The strident, scornful laughter pierced his mind. He heard the sickening, grating sound of his very bones being splintered and crushed, traveling through his mangled flesh to his tortured brain. He screamed. But not the whisper of a sound was heard. Julie . . . Ilse . . . But he knew it was neither.
He was being crushed into nothingness by a far greater force. Into . . . nothingness.
5
He woke with a start, bathed in sweat. For a moment he lay completely still, allowing his racing heart to seek its normal rhythm. It had been a nightmare. A malignant, mind-chilling nightmare.
He got out of bed. He glanced at his watch—0517 hours. It was just beginning to get light.
There was a pump in the farmyard with good cold water. He needed it. In a couple of hours he’d be taking the two German General Staff officers to AIC. Cornelius and Beigel.
He suddenly felt cold. He frowned. Beigel. Had he been in his dream? He shook it off. He could not remember. But he did remember the girl. Ilse. And that had been no dream! He smiled to himself. Damned lucky fellow that SOB Beigel!
Generalmajor Anton Beigel. OQu IV, Deputy Chief of Staff, Intelligence, Oberkommando der Luftwaffe, sat in stony Junker stiffness on the rough-hewn wooden bench placed against the wall in the Bauernstube. He looked unrelenting and forbidding. Close at his side sat Ilse, her lovely face pale and wan. Cornelius, somber and preoccupied, sat a little way off by himself. They were waiting. Waiting uncertainly, apprehensively.
Larry and Sergeant Pete Connors were at the big kitchen stove pouring steaming coffee for themselves when Tom entered. He went to join them.
“All set, sir,” Pete greeted him. “I’ve got a three-quarter-ton coming over from the MP motor pool with a driver and a guard. You and me can take the jeep. Okay?”
“Okay.”
Pete glanced at his watch. “Should be here in a few minutes.” He drained his cup with obvious pleasure and put it down. “I’ll alert you when they arrive.” He left.
Tom looked toward the prisoners watching him from their station on the bench. He caught Ilse’s eyes. She looked away. He poured himself a cup of coffee. Larry always did make a hell of a good cup of coffee. Strong—and scalding hot. Cautiously he took a sip. He walked over to the Germans. “Good morning,” he said pleasantly.
They chorused a polite, distant reply.
He turned to Ilse. “I hope you had a comfortable night, Fräulein Neumann,” he said.
The girl looked up at him, her eyes big and fearful.
He smiled to himself. I won’t give you away, honey, he thought. Don’t worry.
“Yes. Thank you,” she said in a small voice.
“Good.” He smiled. He took another sip from his steaming cup. The aroma rising from it was delicious.
He was suddenly aware that the eyes of all three Germans were riveted on the cup and its fragrant contents. Of course! They had probably not had real coffee in ages. Erstza by any name has only one taste. Bad. The prisoners were obviously very much aware of the tantalizing smell that drifted toward their eager nostrils. Even the imperturbable Beigel began to get restless.
Tom turned away. Beigel was no fool, and Tom did not want him to discern the kernel of an idea that had begun to germinate in his mind. He walked to the table and sat down. Leisurely he drank, obviously savoring the strong black coffee. He glanced toward the three Germans sitting in rigid discomfort on the bench. “We still have a little time,” he said pleasantly. “Would you like to join us in a cup of coffee before we hit the road?” His tone of voice was quite casual.
Involuntarily the Germans tensed. For a moment they sat in utter silence. Then Ilse and Cornelius looked at Beigel. He kept staring straight ahead.
Tom drained his cup. He walked to the stove and began to pour himself a refill. The aromatic steam rose in enticing swirls. “You got enough Java in that pot, Larry, for a little extra?” he asked.
“All you want.”
Tom turned toward the Germans. He held the steaming cup out toward them.
“How about it, Herr Generalmajor,” he asked. “It may be a pretty cold trip.”
Beigel turned to him. “Ja. Darike,” he said curtly.
Soon the Germans were seated at the big table with Larry and Tom, cups of rich hot coffee before them. Real coffee! Almost reverently they sipped the black brew.
Tom could almost see the stiffness and tenseness melt from them as they warmed and relaxed. It was the crucial moment. If he was to establish any kind of rapport with them outside of that infernal name-rank-serial-number shit—especially with Beigel—he’d have to tread softly.
He began by talking about the beauty of the Bavarian countryside—the hills and mountains clad in verdant evergreens.
They agreed.
Larry fished a pack of Luckies from his pocket and lit up comfortably. He pitched the pack onto the table before the Germans. “Help yourselves,” he offered.
The two men stared at the tempting pack of cigarettes. Then, with a quick motion, Cornelius picked it up. He flipped out a cigarette and offered it to Beigel. The general hesitated—then took it. “Danke.”
Larry pitched a book of matches to Cornelius. The colonel lit the cigarette for Beigel and took one himself. It did not occur to him to offer one to Ilse. German women did not smoke. The Führer frowned on it
The smoke wafted up and mingled with the fragrant tendrils of steam from the coffee to embrace the little group in a mist of well-being.
Tom went on talking. “Bavaria is so different from northern Germany,” he said. “Not only in looks. The people. Even the language. It always amazes me that there is such a tremendous difference between the German spoken in, let’s say Prussia, and the dialect spoken here in Bavaria—only a couple of hundred miles away!”
Cornelius smiled. “Bayrisch is indeed a language all its own,” he agreed.
Tom looked at Ilse. “Am I right?” he asked. “In Bavaria a pretty girl, instead of being eine hübsches Mädchen, is called a Muckerl? And her pretty eyes are Guggerl instead of Augen?"
Ilse blushed prettily.
Cornelius laughed. “Quite correct!” He looked at his cigarette with obvious appreciation. “And a Zigarette is called a Schpreiz’n!"
Tom and Larry joined him in his little laugh. Tom turned to Beigel. “Berlin, too, has quite a distinctive dialect, isn’t that so, Herr Generalmajor?”
“There are many different dialects in Greater Germany,” Beigel said stiffly. “They have never interested me. Hochdeutsch—High German—is our national tongue.”
Tom nodded. “I quite agree. A national language should retain its purity.” Tom soon had the German officers engaged in give-and-take conversation. He talked of Germany’s great contributions to literature, to art and to science.
They agreed.
He talked of his father’s and his own admiration of Wagner and his operas. Those grand, sweeping, forceful masterpieces of glorious music.
Again they agreed with him and told him why he was right.
He sipped his coffee. “Germany is a beautiful country,” he said quietly. “And a country of great contradictions.”
They looked at him.
“A country that can produce men like Goethe and Schiller. Holbein and Dürer. Like Wagner and Beethoven. Gutenberg and Keppler. You name them. Beauty and wisdom.” He paused for a brief moment. They were all watching him. “And at the same time a Hitler, a Goebbels and a Himmler.” He shook his head thoughtfully. “A strange people indeed.”
Beigel reddened. “Nonsense!” he snapped. “You are being selective. You are not speaking of the German people. They were misled!”
Ilse drew in her breath sharply. Cornelius gave Beigel a quick penetrating look.
Tom ignored them. “Misled?” he said. “By whom? A handful of Nazis?”
“Not all of us agree with everything the Nazi party stands for. It is obvious. The leadership made mistakes. Certainly the Supreme Command has no military acumen.”
“Hitler?” Tom interjected.
Beigel ignored him. “Of course mistakes were made. Strategic mistakes in the conduct of the war. Mistakes at home. Do not blame the German people.”
“Why not? Why did the German people follow the Führer? And carry out his every order blindly?”
“They had no choice.”
“No choice? Why not?”
“They could not object. Even in matters they did not condone. We—they were forced to support the Reich.”
“How?”
“Through fear.” Beigel frowned. “Yes. Fear. Fear of what would happen to them if they did rebel.”
“Fear? I think not.”
Sternly Beigel fixed him with questioning eyes.
Tom’s mind was racing. I’ve got him, he exulted. He felt exhilarated. I have him interested. So far he has only mouthed the standard I-was-no-Nazi platitudes. But he is interested. He is arguing with me.
“Not fear, Herr Generalmajor,” he said. “Terror.”
Beigel dismissed it with an impatient wave of his hand. “It is the same.”
“It is not. Fear has led men to great accomplishments. Terror never. It is totally negative. Unless you have felt it grip you many times, you will freeze before it. The best you can hope for is to learn to cope. To survive, quite simply. Or you learn to treat it as fear. Terror is a poison without an antidote, but fear can be conquered if you act. If you don’t spend too much time thinking about it, but act. Action is the only antidote.”
Beigel glared at him. “You cannot know,” he growled. “You do not know. Circumstances forced—”
“Circumstances!” Tom interrupted. “What circumstances forced your leaders to take the path of terror and violence they did? To hurl the whole world into war!”
“It is a well-known fact! The unjust, the impossible Treaty of Versailles left Germany no choice!”
“That’s a lotta bullshit! The same tired old excuses, Herr Generalmajor. It does not hold water.”
Beigel glared at him. He was getting angry.
Good, Tom thought. Let him. “True,” he went on. “Germany lost the war in 1918. But the peace treaty was not tough enough! This time—this time you have been beaten for good! The German military machine is kaput, once and for all!”
Beigel bristled angrily. “The military could have won the war! Against all its enemies, had we not been crippled by dilettante civilians!”
“Like Hitler?”
Beigel clamped his jaws shut, his face dark.
Tom went on. “Hitler’s Third Reich is totally kaput, Herr Generalmajor. You know it. I know it. Done for. Germany will never again be a first-rate power.”
Beigel spoke with dangerous control. “You are being arbitrary. You do not know what you talk about!”
“Look around you, General. Your country is in ruins. The cream of your nation’s youth is spent. Your military might destroyed. Your industries, your economy shot to hell!”
“You are wrong!”
“Is he, Anton?” It was Cornelius. He looked soberly at his fellow officer. “Is he? . . . I am not so certain.”
Beigel whirled toward him. “Yes! Dead wrong!” He snapped in anger. “You should know that better than anyone, Eugen!”
Tom’s heart skipped a beat. In the flash of an instant he recognized what was happening. It was an old argument between the two fellow officers—the Junker and the “scholar.” And right now—at this moment—mellowed by good coffee and stimulating conversation, the two men were completely off guard. Arguing as they had probably done so often in the past. He tensed. He knew he had to handle the situation with extreme caution. One wrong gesture, one wrong word, and the two men would be brought back to their bleak reality and clam up. He had a strong urge to look at Larry. To warn him with a glance. He suppressed it. He knew it was not necessary. And it would not have gone unnoticed by the general.
He refilled the coffee cups. The two Germans nodded perfunctory acknowledgment, as they would have if they had been seated in their own mess, Tom thought.
“We all did our duty, Anton,” Cornelius continued. “We all obeyed the orders that came to us from OKW. You, too.”
Beigel lapsed into silence.
Cornelius puffed thoughtfully on his cigarette.
Tom felt a surge of alarm. They were slipping away. He had to get them back. It was time to pounce. “General,” he said, with just the right amount of disinterest, “you feel the colonel should know better than anyone, as you put it, that the German military is not beaten once and for all. . . .Why?”
Beigel started. He stared at Tom.
Tom met his look guilelessly. “I should have thought, as his superior officer, you would be the one to know best.”
“Of course,” Beigel snapped angrily. “The colonel performed his duties under my supervision. He is merely more conversant with details.”
“Details? What details, General?”
Beigel waved his hand impatiently. “Of—” He suddenly stopped. He looked at Tom as if seeing him for the first time. Realizing who he was. His eyes widened. He snapped his head around to stare at Cornelius.
“What were his duties, General?” Tom persisted quietly.
Beigel’s face slowly reddened. He clenched his teeth so tightly shut that the muscles stood out on his jaws.
Tom seemingly took no notice. He sipped his coffee. “From what you have already told us, General, the colonel’s work pertained to Germany’s capability to wage war, is that not correct?” He held his breath. Had he gone too far? Was he losing them?
Cornelius sat motionless, staring at Beigel. The general looked stricken. His jaws were grating in silent turmoil.
Ilse rose from her chair. Her soft face was pale. She went to stand by the officer’s side. He did not notice.
Pleasantly Tom looked at Cornelius. Then back to Beigel. “Well?” he pressed. “That’s what you told us, General. You, yourself. Isn’t it?”
Incredibly the deep flush drained from the officer’s face leaving it a sickly gray. He sat utterly still and motionless.
Ilse watched his inner struggle and torment with agony. He, the general himself, had just given the enemy the key to the vital information they so jealously guarded!
Beigel took a convulsive breath, as if he had forgotten how to breathe and suddenly remembered. The appalling truth hit him with the force of a two-ton bomb. He had betrayed his trust.
Ilse gave a little moan. “No!” she cried. “The general has told you nothing! Nor will he ever do so!” She sobbed. “But I will! I do not have his courage. His strength. What you learn you will learn from me!”
She turned to Colonel Cornelius. She was suddenly calm. “Colonel Cornelius was working on a special Luftwaffe project. The Collection and Evaluation of Information for Future War.”
For a moment there was total silence in the room. Tom sat frozen.
It was big. And it was not at all what he had expected.
Suddenly Ilse fell to her knees. She buried her face in Beigel’s lap. She cried. “I had to tell them, Anton. . . . Please understand. I . . . had to.” She wept uncontrollably.
The general said nothing. Slowly he raised his hand. Without looking at the girl he began to stroke her hair gently. He seemed oblivious to the others.
Tom turned to Cornelius. “You brought the documents with you? From Prague?”
The colonel nodded.
“You were under orders to preserve them?”
“Yes.”
“You concealed them?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
Cornelius looked at Beigel. For a moment the eyes of the two German officers were locked together. Then the general turned aside. Cornelius sighed. He turned to Tom. “They are buried.” He fell silent.
