Sleeper agent, p.32
Sleeper Agent, page 32
“Dammit, you could have called me!” Tom said bitterly.
“Understand, my friend,” Sven said quietly, his voice tired and spent. “Wolff knew how badly he was injured. He claimed, he insisted he was an SS major. That ‘Wolff’ was only a cover name. A cover identity. He was German. . . . The BOPA man in charge of the group had had a sister tortured by the Gestapo. She died. He counted over seventy cigarette burns crushed into her breasts. She was nineteen. He was in no hurry to summon help for the man who claimed to be SS. You must understand. Wolff screamed at him about his rights under the Geneva Convention, and the BOPA man gave him back the callous sophism he had been given when he’d tried to help his sister: To hell with the Geneva Convention! The Third Reich is too great to be hamstrung by a mere piece of paper. By the time they realized that Wolff was the man I was looking for, by the time I got there, Tom, he was half dead. It is a wonder he could say anything at all.” He fell silent.
For a moment Tom sat quietly. He felt utterly defeated. “Okay, Sven,” he said finally. “Did he say anything else? Think! Where is the Sleeper?”
“A few hours ago he was still in the city.”
“Under what name? What cover?”
“Wolff referred to him as Rasmussen.”
“Anything else? Papers?”
“No. Nothing. Only routine papers in the name of Wolff.”
For a few seconds Tom sat in silence, his thoughts bleak. Rudi A-27 was probably still in town. He had known that. Rudi A-27 was probably still using the Rasmussen cover. It was utterly immaterial. Rudi A-27 had been ordered to Flensburg. That was new information. But how in hell did it help?
“Sven,” he said, “thanks. I know you did what you could.”
“We have his address, Tom,” Sven said dispiritedly. “Wolff’s address. We can make a search. Perhaps—”
“Give it to me,” Tom said. He listened. He jotted the address down. “Go through the place, Sven,” he said. “Unless I come up with something else, I’ll meet you there.” He hung up. He stared at the silent telephone, not seeing it.
It was useless. A man like Wolff would not keep incriminating information in his rooms. Certainly nothing that could possibly lead to the capture of Rudi A-27, with whom his involvement had only been very recent and very limited. The odds of finding anything of value at Wolff’s place were simply nonexistent. Sven had known that too.
He stared glumly into space. Into a dead end.
Tove uncoiled herself from the sofa. She came over to stand by him. “Sven did not find out anything, did he?” she asked softly.
He shrugged. “Rudi has been ordered to Flensburg,” he said. “At once. That’s all.”
She frowned. “Tom,” she asked, “how will he get there?”
He looked up at her sharply, suddenly shocked into keen alertness. “Yeah!” he said. “That’s one hell of a question. How?” He stood up. He began to pace the room. “He sure as hell can’t wait and be evacuated with the regular German troops,” he thought aloud. “That might be days. Weeks. His orders said, At once. There’d be screenings. Checks. He could not afford that”
“KorsØr,” Tove said suddenly.
He gave her a quick questioning look.
“KorsØr! It is the town from which the ferry leaves, Tom. The ferry that connects with the trains to Flensburg.”
“Why would he go by train? Why not by car?”
“Too risky, Tom. Most cars are commandeered by fee resistance. The Freedom Fighters. You have seen them in the streets.”
“You’re right!” he said. “You are goddamned right! He can’t take that risk. He can’t let himself be checked out!” He took her by the shoulders. “The trains, Tove? They still run?”
“Yes. From Hovedbanegaarden—the main railroad station.”
The huge central portico of the main railroad station was somewhat less crowded than other public places in Copenhagen.
Tove went straight to one of the ticket windows. For a few moments she spoke earnestly with the ticket seller, a rotund man with a ruddy plump face and sparse, carefully husbanded hair.
Presently she hurried over to the waiting Tom. “The trains are still running,” she said quickly. “But the schedules have been badly disrupted. Because of the shooting. There has been heavy fighting at the engineers’ barracks near SvanemØllen and other places.”
“What about trains to that ferry town you mentioned?”
“KorsØr. Nothing has left since just after two o’clock.”
Tom frowned. “Right on the damned borderline,” he said. “He could have made it. Or he could still be in town. Waiting. if he decided to go by train.”
Automatically he looked around, searching the faces in the station. The face on the little photograph in Mrs. Rasmussen’s locket was indelibly stamped on his mind. He was certain he would recognize Rudi A-27. If he showed up.
“When is the next train to KorsØr?” he asked.
“No one knows,” she said. “They are posting new timetables at the gates.”
“Let’s take a look,” he said. “Lead the way.”
Before the revised timetables tacked up on a makeshift bulletin board next to the closed and locked KorsØr gate, half a dozen travelers stood studying the notices. Other passengers were hurrying by, carrying suitcases and packages.
As Tom and Tove drew near, a large heavy-set man in a rumpled tan raincoat standing at the outer edge of the group at the bulletin board turned away with a gesture of angry disgust.
Tom stopped dead in his tracks. The man in the rain-cost had revealed someone else standing in front of him. A smaller man in a blue suit. The pants seemed to bag in the rear. The loose jacket was too big in the shoulders. As the raincoated man stalked off, the stranger in the blue suit quickly glanced after him, a cautious gesture of awareness, before returning his attention to the bulletin board.
To Tom, his brief glimpse of the man’s face, like a bolt of lightning burned in afterimage on the retina, seemed etched everlastingly on the fabric of time itself.
It was the face from the locket. It was Rudi A-27.
“Stay here!” he whispered hoarsely to Tove.
“But—”
“Do it!” he snarled savagely. He put his hand under his coat, grasped the gun and eased it from his belt, holding it under his jacket.
He began to walk toward the KorsØr gate with just the right amount of purpose—not too fast, not too slow.
Two of the people before the bulletin board walked away. Another joined the group. An elderly lady.
Dammit! Tom thought. He wanted as few bystanders as possible. He knew what he had to do. He walked up behind the man in the blue suit. He stopped two feet from him. He could feel the man in front of him become aware of his presence, waiting a couple of beats before turning to check him out.
He took the gun from under his jacket, locked it tightly against his abdomen, and pointed it straight at the man’s back, his finger firm on the trigger. He spoke in a low, sharp voice. “Rudi,” he said. “Don’t move!”
The man was good. Damned good. There was only the slightest twitch of the hairline. An almost imperceptible tensing of the shoulder muscles under the ill-fitting blue jacket He did not turn around. Instead he unconcernedly brought up his hand to scratch his nose pensively, seemingly engrossed in studying the timetables.
For a chilling instant Tom had a sinking feeling. Had he made a mistake? No. Had he spoken too softly? Had he not been heard?
He took one more step toward the man in front of him, his locked gun arm relaxing as he moved. He opened his mouth to speak.
Suddenly, explosively, without the slightest warning, the man before him whirled and twisted around. In the same split instant his right hand swung back in a vicious chop, striking Tom’s gun-hand wrist a numbing blow.
Tom’s reaction was instantaneous. A shot rang out, reverberating thunderously through the huge portico. The bullet ripped through the loose blue jacket and crashed into the emergency timetables at the exact moment the gun was knocked from his grip. It clattered to the floor, skittered across to slide under the locked gate—out of reach.
For the flash of a split second the eyes of the two men locked. Tom stared into the face of his foe. It was the cold, flat face of controlled violence. Of fanatical ruthless-ness and invincible determination. It was the face of Rudi A-27. The face of KOKON.
In the same twisting motion, Rudi shot his knee viciously into Tom’s groin. It was an instinctive action—instinctively anticipated and parried. Tom caught the brunt of the kick on his hip. The force brought him to his knees.
A savage kick to his solar plexus, only partly blocked, shot a searing, blinding pain through his very being and sent him sprawling in gasping, nauseous dizziness. He doubled up in agony.
Tove was at his side.
Torturously he struggled to his feet, fighting to keep down the bitter vomit gurgling in his burning throat. In one blurred glance he registered the gun lying out of reach on the other side of the locked gate. He saw Rudi racing toward the big doors at the near end of the station hall.
Nothing. No one stood in his way. The travelers in the railroad terminal, conditioned to the sudden eruptions of violence, had scattered and taken cover immediately after the shot rang out.
Tom straightened up. Every cell in his body shrieked in pain-ridden protest. “Stay here!” he shouted hoarsely to Tove. He ran after the fleeing Rudi.
Tove followed.
Rudi ran from the station. He was coldly angry. He had nearly allowed himself to get caught At best, his safest escape route from the city had been sealed off. He would have to devise another way to get out. Fast
He dismissed it For now. His primary concern was to get away from his immediate pursuer. The Ami agent. He had no doubt that it was he who had tracked him down. He had to lose himself. Fast How? Where? He ran along the street.
Across from him was a stone portal. A gatehouse. Lights. Turnstiles. A metal accordian gate. Tivoli! It was a side entrance to the amusement park. In there he could lose himself in the crowds. Slip away undetected.
He at once crossed the street. There was no one in sight at the entrance, but the accordian gate stood partially open. He vaulted the turnstile and slipped through the gate opening. He stopped short
Before him lay the amusement park. Quiet Dimly lit. No crowds. No one at all. Where yesterday the jubilant Copenhageners had thronged, cheering and celebrating, the garden was silent and deserted. The protection of the crowds was gone. Tivoli was closed.
He turned back. Quickly he glanced toward the railroad terminal. He saw the American and someone else come hurrying from the building.
At that moment an elderly uniformed guard came out from the little gatehouse. He saw Rudi in the open gate. “Hov, hov,” he said amiably. “Vi har lukket i Aften!—We are closed tonight!”
Rudi ignored him. He threw a last glance toward his pursuers running down the street toward the park gate. He was committed. At once he turned and raced into the dark, deserted amusement park.
Tom came running toward the Tivoli gate. Rudi was nowhere to be seen. He saw the guard at the gate and headed toward him.
The gatekeeper planted himself resolutely in front of the turnstiles. As Tom came up to him he said firmly, “Tivoli erlukket!"
Tove came running up. Tom gave her an angry look. “I thought I . . .” he began.
“Wait a little, Tom,” she interrupted him quietly. “I do not wish to be left behind like that. And you need me.”
He glared at her. She was right. “Ask this fellow if he has seen anyone,” he said, nodding toward the protective gatekeeper.
The man’s face lit up. “Oh, you are an Englishman!” he exclaimed delightedly. “I talk good English. Can I help? It is unhappy that Tivoli is closed this night,” he said sadly. “Last night we had open. Tomorrow again, Only tonight closed. It is because all is so dangerous. One never knows—”
Tom interrupted him. “Did anyone enter the park?” he asked urgently. “Now? Anyone at all?”
The guard nodded with obvious disapproval. “One young man,” he said. “Very rude.”
“How long ago?”
“Only a small piece of time.” He held up his right index finger. “One minute.” He held up his left index finger, crossing it with the right. “One half minute. No more.”
“Which way did he go?”
The guard pointed. “That way. Along to Koncertsalen—the concert hall. The one the Nazis blew up and burned in revenge upon the people of Copenhagen for the sabotage.” He shook his head with great sadness. He clapped his hands in front of him once. “All the music,” he said. “The instruments . . .”
“Thanks,” Tom said. He started for the gate.
The guard blocked his way. “Tivoli is closed!’ he said sternly.
“Look!” Tom snapped. “The man you saw run in there is a damned Nazi informer. A terrorist Very dangerous. We must catch him. Understand?”
Wide-eyed, the gatekeeper stared at him. “Naa saadan,” he said. “Like that.” He stood aside. “I let you go in!”
Tom at once started away. He stopped. He turned back to the guard. “Do you have a gun?” he asked.
The man looked startled. “Gun!” he exclaimed.
“Yes. A pistol. A gun.”
The gatekeeper looked indignant “No Tivoli KontrollØr need to have a gun, Her,” he said. “No, no.” He shook his head, looking embarrassed.
Tom eyed him closely. “Do you have one?” he asked pointedly.
The man did not meet his eyes.
“It is important,” Tom said.
The man sighed. He ducked into the gatehouse. Almost at once he returned. He handed a gun to Tom. “I shall have it back,” he said. “It belongs to my brother. He was in America.”
Tom looked at the gun. It was an old single-action Colt .45 Cavalry Peacemaker, model 1889. A real six-shooter. He flipped it open. He spun the cylinder. It was full.
The gatekeeper watched him. “You understand,” he said apologetically. “It is . . . the times.”
Tom fished the piece of paper Sven had given him from his pocket. “You have a telephone?” he asked.
The guard nodded. “In there.” He pointed at the gatehouse.
Tom looked at Tove. Firmly she shook her head. He turned back to the guard. He held the paper out to him. “Call that number,” he said. “Talk to anyone. Tell them . . . tell them that Tove and the Moles need help. At once. In Tivoli. At the bombed-out concert hall.”
Automatically the man took the paper. Open-mouthed, he looked up to protest, but Tom and Tove were already hurrying toward the dark, dimly seen ruins of the Tivoli concert hall.
Rudi ran silently, easily along the paved walk in the dark amusement garden. Every nerve end, every fiber in his body was keyed up. The adrenalin surging through his system made everything exquisitely clear to him. His thoughts churned.
The man pursuing him was the Ami agent who had discovered his dossier. Somehow he had tracked him down. It was not important how. Not now. One man. One American. In Denmark. He could not possibly have the necessary support to mount a thorough manhunt. Not here. Not now. He had to rely upon himself. Even as he, Rudi, did. The two of them. One against the other. That was it. The Ami agent was the only real threat to him and to his mission.
It was no longer enough to avoid him—escape from him for the moment. The man was too good. Too tenacious. He would catch up to him again, the devil take it He had to be eliminated. Destroyed. Now!
He felt wildly stimulated. Wholly capable, wholly alert, invincible, as he ran along. He had been trained. Honed to an epitome of efficiency. He would put his training to use. He would do it now. He felt totally confident. His decision was made. He felt free. He had long since learned that making a decision, good or bad, brings relief. Until it is made, you live in both hells. He would kill the Ami agent Annihilate the threat to himself and KOKON.
Quickly he glanced around the darkened park as he ran. Ahead of him loomed the dark nightmare shapes of twisted beams and crumbled fire-sooted walls. The ruins of a large building.
He altered his direction slightly. He ran toward the exposed misshapen skeleton of the ravaged structure. He was suddenly conscious of the crunching sounds his footsteps made as he left the paved walk and ran across a stretch of gravel.
He dismissed the thought. It did not matter. He knew what he had to do. He knew how. He disappeared into the forbidding ruins.
It had once been a chase. Suddenly that was millennia ago. Now it had become a chilling contest to the death.
Tom and Tove ran cautiously along the shadow-streaked Tivoli path. Suddenly Tom stopped. He listened intently. In the distance, from the direction of the contorted ruins of a large structure, came the faint sound of footsteps running on loose gravel. Then silence.
He glanced at Tove. “The wrecked concert hall?” he whispered.
She nodded.
He looked into the girl’s upturned face. His thoughts whirled through his mind. Rudi appeared to be headed for the ruins. Should he wait for help to arrive?
No. Rudi undoubtedly would be long gone before that happened. He had to keep the pressure on.
Tove? He could not let her go along. He could not place her in danger. There was another way she could be useful.
“Look, Tove,” be said, his voice low, urgent. “Will you help?”
“Of course,” she said unhesitatingly.
“It looks as if Rudi’s making for the concert hall. I’m going in after him.”
She started to speak. He stopped her short. “I want you to circle around. Quickly. Approach the place from the opposite side. Then make a little noise. Let him hear you.”
Her eyes grew bright “I understand. It will be like a . . . a game drive.”
“Exactly. But don’t overdo it. Don’t get too close. Don’t be obvious. Just worry him. Get his attention.”
