Sleeper agent, p.16
Sleeper Agent, page 16
Tom nodded. His respect for the man’s quick cunning increased. He had given just enough information. No more. No less. He had avoided the mistake of denying any knowledge at all, which would at once have made him suspect.
“We have reason to believe that certain records are buried on the estate. What do you know about that?”
“Nichts—Nothing.”
Tom’s voice hardened. “In that case you had better find out! Come up with someone who does!”
The major looked uneasy. “I . . . I may not be able to do that.”
“I was under the impression that that was exactly what you are here to do!”
“Yes, but—”
“No buts, Major Helmuth,” Tom interrupted, his voice dangerously low. “A yes. Or . . . if you are prepared to give it, a no.”
Helmuth fixed Tom with hard, piercing eyes. Tom returned his gaze steadily. He was well aware that he was being sized up. Helmuth looked away. “It . . . it may take time.”
“Agreed,” Tom snapped. “You’ll have it. Two hours!”
Helmuth’s face turned red. For a brief moment he glared at Tom. Then he said, “Two hours.”
With a brief command, “Rolf! Zu Fuss!” he turned on his heel. Without a backward glance he stalked from the Gaststube, Rolf close behind.
Tom watched them leave. He walked back to the others. “Thanks, Irwin,” he said.
He looked around the Gaststube. Most of the tables in the little country-style restaurant dining room had been pushed against the walls, some still covered with red-and-white-checkered tablecloths. Plain straight-backed wooden chairs were stacked in a corner. Only half a dozen tables were scattered about the room used by the CIC team as a common makeshift office. He turned to Sergeant Winkler. “Sergeant,” he said. “I’ll need an interrogation room. Private. In two hours.” He glanced at his watch. “At 1630 hours. Okay?”
“Can do, sir.” Winkler grinned. “Can do.”
It was precisely 1627 hours when SS Major Maximilian Helmuth returned to Gastwirtschaft Bockelmeier. The frightened young girl he held firmly by the arm as he walked into the Gaststube had obviously been crying. Her eyes were red and puffed.
Tom and Larry were waiting for him. They watched as the Gestapo major pushed the girl into a chair. He gave Rolf a short command: “Bewachen!—On Guard!” The dog at once fixed his attention on the petrified girl. His lips drew back in a menacing snarl and a low growl rumbled in his throat as he watched his cringing charge.
Helmuth marched over to the CIC agents. “This is Fräulein Ingeborg,” he reported dispassionately. “She was for some months an office worker at Schloss Ehrenstein.’’
“She has information?” Tom asked.
Helmuth shrugged. “Perhaps. She will not talk to me. But she is the only one still in the area. Except for the caretaker, Frau Peukert.” He looked at Tom, flat-eyed, the hint of a sardonic smile on his lips. “But I understand she has already told you all she knows.”
The bastard is rubbing our noses in it! Tom thought. The arrogant SOB.
Helmuth glanced at his watch. “Two hours,” he said. He looked at Tom. “It is what you said, yes? I should have saved some time had I been told you already had interrogated Frau Peukert.”
Tom chose to ignore him. He looked toward the girl. She sat rigidly terrified on her chair, staring wide-eyed at the menacing dog guarding her. “Call off your dog,” he ordered.
Helmuth smiled a thin smile. “As you wish.” He turned toward the dog. “Rolf! Zu Fuss!"
At once the dog broke off his watch and bounded over to stand close at Helmuth’s heels. The girl sagged in her chair. She put her face in her hands. Her slender shoulders shook gently.
Tom glared at the SS major with ill-concealed distaste. “You will stay here, Major. You will hold yourself available. I will let you know if I want you.” The order was impersonal. Intentionally curt.
Helmuth drew himself up. He clicked his heels, bowed slightly, smartly turned on his heel and walked off with Rolf close at heel. A performance of subservience bordering on mockery. It was not lost on Tom. He considered it a draw.
He walked over to the girl. “What is your name?” he asked.
She looked up at him, her eyes terror-stricken. “Rost,” she whispered. “Ingeborg Rost.”
He nodded. “They tell me, Ingeborg, that you worked in the administration office at Schloss Ehrenstein, is that correct?”
The girl stared at him, her wide eyes dark with fear and foreboding. She seemed to stop breathing. She uttered not a sound.
Sergeant Winkler came into the Gaststube. He walked up to Tom. “All set on that interrogation room,” he said, looking with curiosity at the girl. “Best room in the inn with a fine view of World War Two!”
Tom watched the silent, frightened girl. She looked on the verge of nervous collapse. Even if she does know something, he thought, she’s so damned scared she can’t think straight enough to answer any questions intelligibly. To Winkler he said, “Not just yet, Sergeant. How are chances for some coffee? Strong and black?”
“Better than good, sir.” The sergeant nodded toward a door. “Kitchen’s over there. I’ll have the coffee ready in less than no time.”
As Ingeborg, sitting at the kitchen table with Tom, Larry and Winkler, sipped her hot coffee, she slowly lost some of her paralyzing fear.
Tom had deliberately stayed away from any anxiety-arousing questions as he calmly and reassuringly talked to her.
The girl was a stenographer-typist. She had indeed worked in the administrative offices of Schloss Ehrenstein, but in a strictly non-sensitive capacity. She had held her job for some five months, being assigned to it when she left the Bund Deutscher Mädel—the female branch of the Hitler Youth. She had been handling estate logistic and administrative correspondence and filing. She’d had no involvement with personnel, training or any policy matters of the organization occupying the castle. She only knew that the estate was used as some kind of school for young men, with whom she was told not to fraternize And she knew that there had been definite SS supervision. She had been dismissed when the Schloss Ehrenstein operation was closed down.
“As a typist and file clerk you must have handled a lot of letters,” Tom suggested pleasantly. “A lot of documents.”
Ingeborg nodded.
He paused for a moment. He looked straight at her. “What happened to all those records and files when the organization pulled out of the castle?” he asked.
The girl tensed, her cup forgotten in her hands. Some of the old fear crept back into her eyes.
“What was done with them?” Tom pressed. “You were there to the last. You must know.”
The girl stared at Tom. The color in her softly rounded, cheeks, brought back by the hot coffee and carefully nurtured sense of danger past, visibly drained away.
“Please,” she begged. “Please, I do not know what was done with the documents. I do not know where they are. Already I told the major.” Involuntarily she flinched, conjuring up the images of the Gestapo officer and his dog. “Please do not hurt me,” she pleaded. “I will do anything you ask, but please do not hurt me. I . . . I do not know.” Tears of terror and self-pity welled up in her eyes.
Unsparingly Tom persisted. “Tell me what you do know.”
She shook her head slowly in fearful, silent indecision.
Tom’s voice took on a harsh edge. He leaned closer to the girl, deliberately violating the private ego space she maintained around her. “What was done with the records of Schloss Ehrenstein?” he demanded.
She strained away from him, pressing her body against the straight hard back of the chair. “I . . . I think a lot of the papers were destroyed,” she whispered. “Burned.”
“All of them?”
“No.” She caught herself. “I . . . I do not know.”
“Did you help dispose of any papers?”
“No.”
“Did you help hide anything?”
It was a leading question. He knew it. It was a calculated risk. The girl was desperately anxious to find something to please her interrogator. It was a common reaction. He could only hope that her answers would be true, and not merely what she thought he wanted to hear. He waited.
“No . . . no . . .” she stammered. “I . . .” She stopped. She looked down. She was lying.
He knew it.
Abruptly he stood up. The girl’s half-filled cup clattered to the table, rich brown coffee spreading in a dark stain on the tabletop. He loomed over the petrified girl. “Well!” he snapped, the last vestige of his calm and friendly manner wholly replaced by brusque exasperation. “Did you? Or did you not?”
She shrank from him. “They . . . they made me swear not to tell!” It was barely a whisper.
Tom drew back a little. “But you will tell, won’t you?”
“Please . . .” Her wounded eyes implored him.
“Now!”
She flinched. She sat in agonizing silence for a moment He did not pressure her. Then she went on, her voice trembling: “I . . . I helped the housekeeper, Frau Peukert. I helped her pack a large steel filing cabinet. From the office.” Her voice broke. With difficulty she swallowed. The men watched her in utter silence. “It . . . it was supposed to be . . . to be buried. In the woods. On the estate.” She sobbed.
“Was it?”
“Yes.”
“You know where?”
“Yes.”
Tom straightened up. He felt some of his tenseness leave him. He had not been aware of how stiffly he’d carried his shoulders. It surprised him. He felt elated. At last!
“What was in the filing cabinet?” he asked, unable completely to keep his excitement out of his voice.
The girl wet her bloodless lips. She looked imploringly from one of the men to the other. She fixed her huge eyes beseechingly on Tom. There was no reprieve. And the words came tumbling out. “Silk. Silk and brocade from Paris. Silverware. Gold coins. And jewelry. Stockings. Perfume. And . . . But, please, Herr Offizier, nothing of it is mine. Nothing! I swear it. I only did what I was told. It all belonged to the colonel. The commandant. He took it. When he was in Paris. Some of it is the woman’s. Nothing is mine! Please . . . do not punish me. I . . . I was afraid.They made me swear. On my faith in the Holy Virgin. They made me swear not to tell!”
She buried her face in her hands and leaned her arms on the table, oblivious to the puddle of cold coffee smearing the smooth skin on her bare arms. She cried, partly with relief, partly with fear.
Tom looked down at her. Loot! he thought, the disappointment bitter in his mouth. Nothing but some SS bastard’s damned loot! He bent down to her. He lifted up her tear-stained face. He looked searchingly at her. “Do you know of any other place where things are buried?” he asked wearily. He already knew the answer.
“No.”
He believed her. Had she known, she would have talked. He took a deep breath.
The door to the Gaststube opened, and Buter stood in the doorway. He took in the scene around the table. “Cozy,” he commented dryly. “How goes it?”
“Great,” Tom said bleakly, looking up at Buter. “Just great”
“Terrific.”
Tom glanced past the CIC agent in the doorway into the Gaststube beyond.
At a far table sat SS Major Helmuth, stiffly waiting to be summoned. Patiently, watchfully Rolf lay at his feet, eyes and ears alert.
Ingeborg followed his gaze. She shuddered.
Tom looked at her. Suddenly he drew himself up. “Hey, Irwin!” he said, new vigor in his voice. “How’s the chow in this here outfit?”
“The best. We . . . ah . . . ‘inherited’ a well-stocked larder from the former Inhaber. It’s in the basement.”
Tom looked pleased. “I- was hoping you’d say that!” He looked around him. “I could use a bite. Lead the way, Irwin.”
He turned to Sergeant Winkler. “And, Winkler. Ask the major to join us.” He looked into the Gaststube. “And, of course, Rolf!”
6
The morning of April 29th was gray and overcast. In the doorway to the Gastwirtschaft Bockelmeier Tom squinted up at the gloomy sky. He hoped it wouldn’t rain.
He yawned. It had been a rough night. Hours spent in meticulous preparations. It had better work.
He surveyed the scene of activity in the courtyard before him. Several U.S. Army vehicles were drawn up at one end of the yard. Three jeeps, one of them his own, and a 2½-ton open truck. A handful of MP guards were herding a group of a score or so German PWs equipped with picks, spades and shovels onto the truck. The clanging sounds of metal striking metal rang out in the dismal morning as the PW’s manhandled their tools aboard.
SS Major Maximilian Helmuth stood by himself at one of the jeeps, a forbidding ramrod figure; Rolf sat at his side eyeing the activity with alert suspicion. Larry and Sergeant Winkler were poring over a map spread out on the hood of one of the other jeeps, and a few kids hung around the wide courtyard gate watching the proceedings with frank curiosity.
Agent Buter joined Tom at the entrance. “Morning,” he said.
“Morning.”
“Quite a show you’re putting on.”
“You ain’t seen nothing yet!” Tom grinned. “I hopel How about coming along?”
“Is that a request?”
“Hell, no. I thought you might like to be in on the fun and games.”
“Volunteer?” Buter sounded horrified.
“Why not?”
“You must be kidding! I haven’t volunteered for anything since basic training.”
“How’s our little Ingeborg?”
“Still impersonating the Sleeping Beauty.”
“Keep her here until the operation has been completed.
Just in case.”
“Will do.” Buter nodded toward the Gestapo major.
“How’re you getting along with marvelous Max?”
“Fine. I’ve got him eating out of my hand.”
“Yeah? Have you counted your fingers lately?”
Larry came up to them. “Ready to go,” he said.
“Okay. Let’s get the show on the road.”
Buter raised his hand benevolently. “Good hunting!”
Forty-five minutes later the little convoy drove up to the main entrance of Schloss Ehrenstein and ground to a halt.
In the lead jeep were Tom and Larry, followed by a second jeep driven by Sergeant Winkler, with Major Helmuth and Rolf in the back. Then the 2½-ton, crammed with the German PWs and their tools. The rear was brought up by a jeep with four MP guards, weapons at the ready.
In front of the castle entrance the young Engineer lieutenant stood waiting, a detail of his men at parade rest behind him. Next to him stood the caretaker, Frau Peukert, flanked by two burly soldiers. Churlishly she glowered at the unfolding spectacle.
Tom and Larry dismounted and marched up to the lieutenant. The officers exchanged salutes, and Tom turned briskly to the woman. He wasted no time. “We now possess definite proof that the Schloss Ehrenstein documents are buried here on the estate,” he declared, his voice brisk. He looked straight at the scowling woman, matching her grimness. “We are also informed that you do know where! If we are forced to find the records without your cooperation, Frau Peukert, you will have to bear the consequences. The serious consequences. I hope that is fully understood.”
He paused significantly. Then, solemnly, he went on: “We are here to give you one last chance.” Momentously he gave the two last words unmistakable capital-letter importance. He watched the woman closely. He hoped he was being properly impressive. She returned his gaze. It was difficult for him to tell just what she was thinking. Only one emotion showed through on her stony face: contempt
“I have nothing to say,” she said in her flat tone of voice. “Nothing.”
Tom whirled on his heel. “Sergeant Winkler!” he called. “Dismount the prisoners!”
At once Winkler and the MP guards began to order the German PW’s from the truck. With shouts of “Schnell! Schnell!” and “Los!” they formed the men in a column of twos, each man carrying a pick, a spade or a shovel.
Tom turned back to the sullen woman. “As you can see, Frau Peukert, we have come prepared,” he said. “We will keep searching and digging until we find what we’re looking for.” He watched her closely. “And heaven help you when we do,” he added portentously.
The woman’s mien of confident scorn did not change. She knew perfectly well that it would take a lifetime of digging before anything could be found on the hundreds of acres of land that made up the estate of Schloss Ehren-stein. Unless . . . unless the diggers knew exactly where and how deep to dig.
She shook her head. “I have nothing to say.”
He had expected it. He turned toward the jeep where Major Helmuth and Rolf were waiting. “Major Helmuth!” he called.
The major dismounted. Leading Rolf on a long leash, coiled like a lasso in his hand so that the dog trotted close by his left leg, he walked over to stand next to Tom, facing the recalcitrant woman.
“This is Sturmbannführer Maximilian Helmuth,” Tom said importantly. “Gestapo.”
He thought he saw a brief flicker of alarm in the woman’s flat eyes. He went on. “The dog’s name is Rolf. He has been trained by the Gestapo for a very special purpose.” He lowered his voice and spoke with grave emphasis. “You see, Frau Peukert, we will not search aimlessly. We will not dig without method. Rolf will show us where to dig. He has been carefully trained to smell out where anything touched by human hands lies buried, even though weeks may have passed!”
He turned to Helmuth. “Am I correct, Major?” ho asked.
“Ja!’” The Gestapo officer’s answer was curt.
For the first time the woman looked a little uneasy. A little uncertain. Her eyes involuntarily went to Rolf. Helmuth gave a short yank on the leash, and the dog bared his fangs and growled threateningly, never taking his savage eyes from the woman before him.
For a moment she was unnerved. But her native peasant astuteness won out. She correctly reasoned that no dog—Gestapo-trained or not—could possibly nose out weeks-old diggings in a fast-growing spring forest. She smelled the bluff. A thin, mocking smile grew on her lips. “Let the dog show you then,” she said. “I cannot!”
