Sleeper agent, p.8
Sleeper Agent, page 8
The building had caught fire and was gutted. Black soot fingers pointed accusingly upward from each empty window socket.
It was the place where the wife and sister of Gestapo Colonel Wolfgang Steinmetz were supposed to meet him. The time: 24 April at 1200 hours, a time selected by the colonel to avoid any possible curfew imposed on the townspeople.
Tom had requested a detail of eight MP’s and one MP noncom for the stakeout. He wanted to take no chances. Steinmetz could not be permitted to give them the slip.
He had gone over his plan of action with the men carefully. He had determined a spot for each man, out of sight, covering the entire area. Once inside the building, Steinmetz would not escape.
He himself would keep the main entrance on Ludwigsstrasse under observation. The noncom, Sergeant David Rosenfeld, would be around the corner keeping an eye on the side entrance and the side street.
It was 1000 hours. Two hours before H-hour. They were in place. They were ready. Waiting . . .
Sergeant Rosenfeld was holed up behind a shattered basement window in the house across the street from the target building. He had a clear view of the street and the side entrance to Ludwigsstrasse 17. He felt keyed up. He touched the sergeant’s stripes on his sleeve. Only yesterday he’d sewn them on! And already today he was in charge of eight men and an important mission. He, David Rosenfeld himself—in person! Sergeant David Rosenfeld, commanding! Well . . . after that CIC guy, of course.
He’d show them. He wanted desperately to carry out his first real command job without a hitch. Right down the old groove, all the way. He would, too. He shifted the walkie-talkie lying on the sill next to him. He’d checked in with the CIC agent minutes before. He knew his instructions: Report anything out of the ordinary—but stay off the button unless there is something to report. Clear enough.
He looked up and down the street. There was some civilian traffic, all on foot. Mostly women and elderly men, an occasional kid or wounded ex-Wehrmacht soldier in his stripped uniform. No one paid any attention to the gutted corner building.
He glanced at his watch. 1012 hours. He had a long wait. . . . He shifted again. He positioned himself so that he had optimum sight lines down the side street, to his left. He even thought “optimum sight lines.” He liked the word “optimum.” It sounded so . . . official. Important
He had considered it carefully. That was the direction from which the suspect would be most likely to show. Anyone coming from the other direction would have passed the CIC agent. If it was the suspect, he’d probably have been spotted.
He mentally went over the description of the German officer once more: six feet one inch tall. A hundred and eighty pounds. Blond hair. Blue eyes. Thirty-nine years old. And how many Krauts did that description fit? he thought wryly. Well, anyway, it eliminated three-foot dwarfs with triangular heads.
He settled down to wait. . . . It was 1109 hours. Sergeant Rosenfeld yawned. Gawd, being on stakeout was boring. He looked at his walkie-talkie. There hadn’t been a peep out of the damned thing. And he hadn’t used it. He peered down the street.
There were only a few Germans abroad. Half a dozen women hurrying along, heads down, carrying cloth bags; an old man making his way toward Ludwigsstrasse; and way in the distance he could make out someone pushing an old baby carriage. A man. He seemed to be wearing a woolen cap, and a Wehrmacht greatcoat flapped around his ankles. He was working his way slowly down the street, occasionally stopping to pick up something, to examine the rubble and debris lining the street and to peer into old boxes and crates and piles of trash.
Rosenfeld knew what he was searching for. Anything of use. Anything salvable. Anything to eat. And that rare treasure, a discarded GI cigarette butt In that ascending order of importance.
He was not the only one. The war had made scavengers of all.
The man with the rickety baby carriage was getting closer. He was tall. Six feet one inch? It was impossible to tell the color of his hair, but he had a dirty blond beard stubble. So . . . who didn’t? Age? Impossible to say. Could be thirty-nine. Or forty-nine. The man looked tired and worn. He limped slightly.
Sergeant Rosenfeld watched him suspiciously. Should he report him?
The German stopped almost directly opposite Rosenfeld. He hobbled to the curb and laboriously bent down to pick up something. A butt? Probably. He seemed to be looking for a match in the pockets of his ragged greatcoat. He came up empty handed.
Rosenfeld had a sudden urge to throw him a book of matches. He grinned. A great way to lose those stripes!
The German rummaged around and fished out an old tin box from a burlap bag he carried on a strap over his shoulder. Carefully he placed the butt in it. He put his hands over the small of his back and stretched painfully. Then he started off down the street again. His limp seemed more pronounced. He stopped. He looked pathetically defeated. Dejected. He pushed his baby carriage close to the wall and awkwardly eased himself down to sit on the stone step of the ruined side entrance to Ludwigsstrasse 17. He placed his face in his grimy hands, leaned his elbows on his knees and rested.
Sergeant Rosenfeld watched him tensely. He picked up the walkie-talkie. He’d better report the old man. His finger was on the button. He would speak in a low voice. He hesitated. So . . . what was to report?
An old Kraut scavenger taking a break? So . . . the CIC agent would come running over to take a look. Commotion. Just as the real suspect turned up! Great! He’d really have fucked things up then.
Okay. He’d wait. See what the old man was up to. Likely as not he’d be on his way soon. He put down the walkie-talkie.
But the agent had said anything out of the ordinary. Maybe he should report the old man. He could always say he didn’t think he was of any importance. Leave it up to the CIC agent. He tensed.
Across the street the German raised his head and peered narrow-eyed at the sun beating down on him. He slowly moved into the shade, of the doorway—all but lost in the shadows.
Okay, Buster, Rosenfeld thought, that does it. He was about to pick up the walkie-talkie again when he saw the other man. He was coming down the street. He wore boots. Military boots. He had on some sort of uniform, stripped of all insignia. A gray peaked cap. On his right sleeve was an armband. It read, POSTAMT BAYREUTH.
The man carried a clipboard. He looked—and acted—“official.” At each house he’d stop and make a notation. He was only three houses from Ludwigsstrasse 17. He fit the description of SS Colonel Wolfgang Steinmetz. No doubt about it
Rosenfeld hardly dared breathe. It could be him! He didn’t take his eyes off the man. One house away. Rosenfeld picked up the walkie-talkie. His hands were sweaty. This was it.
The man stopped at the side entrance of the target house. He paid no attention to the resting forager in the doorway. He made a note on his clipboard and quickly strode down the street to Ludwigsstrasse, disappearing around the corner.
Rosenfeld was so disappointed he could taste it. Shit! he thought in disgust He’d been so sure . . . He looked over toward the side entrance. The old baby carriage still hugged the wall; the man could just be ,made out sleeping in the shade of the doorway.
Should he report him? No. Hell, what kind of sergeant would he be if he couldn’t handle a crippled old scavenger without hollering for help? He’d wait . . . and watch. . . .
It was 1231 hours when Sergeant Rosenfeld’s walkie-talkie sputterd to life. Thirty-one minutes past H-hour.
It was CIC agent Jaeger. “Sergeant? Anything on your side?”
“No, sir. Nothing.”
“We’ll give it another thirty minutes.”
“Okay, sir.”
“Keep your eyes open. He could still show up.”
“Right.”
“Jaeger, out.”
“Rosenfeld, out”
Half an hour later Sergeant Rosenfeld saw the CIC agent with two of his MP’s come around the corner and walk toward him.
Well, that’s that, he thought. Nothing but a wild-goose chase. He felt let down. Some big assignment! He stretched. He picked up his walkie-talkie and ducked out of his hiding place. He met Agent Jaeger just outside the basement entrance.
The officer glanced at him. “Nothing?”
“Nothing. Not a damned thing, sir.” He gave a crooked grin. “Unless we’re looking for a baby buggy and an old rag picker!”
“What rag picker?” Tom was at once alert.
Rosenfeld was startled at the instant change in the CIC officer. He had a quick pang of apprehension. He should have reported that fucking old fart! He should have . . . He grew sober. “Just an old bum, sir. Scavenging around. With an old baby buggy.” He nodded across the street. “That one. Over there.”
Tom looked quickly. “Where’s the man?” he snapped.
“Asleep, sir. He’s . . . sitting just inside the doorway.” He strained to see into the shadows. The man was still there. Wasn’t he?
Tom stared at the darkened doorway. He thought he could see a figure slumped against the wall. He felt the familiar chill of tenseness shudder down his back. He turned to Rosenfeld. His voice was low, intense. “How long has he been there?”
Rosenfeld was clammy with misgivings. God damn it all to hell, he cursed to himself, he’d gone and fucked up his first assignment. But good. He said quickly, “A couple of hours, sir.” He thought fast “I didn’t want to roust him. It would’ve given the show away.”
Tom looked at the frightened young soldier. No use chewing his ass now, he thought.
“Get to your men, Sergeant. Tell them to move in. Now!” He turned to the two MP’s. “You two. Come with me!”
Rosenfeld took off down the street. Tom and the MP’s ran to the doorway of Ludwigsstrasse 17.
Tom knew what he’d find before he was halfway across the street. What had appeared to be the figure of the old scavenger sitting hunched against the wall in the shadows was only a couple of scorched pieces of lumber, lent credence by the presence of the old baby carriage just outside.
The scavenger was gone.
They found him on the second floor of the building. In a room facing the rear courtyard. He was asleep.
When Tom, closely followed by the two MP’s, burst into the room, his gun tightly locked against his abdomen and aimed at anything he would face, the startled man sat up in alarm and cowered against the cracked wall.
“Up!” Tom snapped. “On your feet!”
The man scrambled to obey. He looked bewildered and frightened.
“Hands on top of your head. Move!”
The man quickly clasped his hands on top of the old wool cap he wore. He stared at Tom.
“Search him,” Tom ordered the MP’s. “I’ll cover you.”
The soldiers began to shake down the dazed man. He stood stock still.
Sergeant Rosenfeld came into the room. He took in the scene in an instant. He felt enormously relieved. The old pisser had not got away! He quickly grew sober. It was no thanks to him. He turned to Tom. “I got a couple of men on each exit, sir.”
Tom didn’t take his eyes from the captive. “Very good, Sergeant,” he said.
The soldiers had finished their search. One of them came over to Tom. “He’s clean, sir.” He handed the agent a small thin booklet. “Here are his papers.”
Tom took the booklet. It was a Soldbuch—a Wehrmacht soldier’s identification and paybook. He glanced at it. The man was supposed to be one Hans Moser, ex-Feldwebel in the Wehrmacht
He had expected nothing else. A name means nothing. Papers can be forged. But not so easily a physical description: six feet one inch. Blond. Blue-eyed. A hundred and eighty pounds. Thirty-nine years old. It was the exact description of the prisoner. And of SS Colonel Wolfgang Steinmetz.
Tom stepped closer to the man. He watched him intently. “You are under arrest,” he said firmly, “Colonel Steinmetz!”
There was absolutely no reaction from the captive except a bewildered stare. “I . . . I do not understand.” The man looked confused, apprehensive. Was it apprehension caused by a situation he did not comprehend? Or the fear of discovery?
“You are SS Standartenführer Wolfgang Steinmetz, are you not?” Tom sounded exasperated. Impatient. “We know you are!”
The man shook his head. “Feldwebel Moser, Hans. One, four, oh, two . . .” he began intoning automatically. The hands clasped on his head shook slightly.
Tom watched him with a frown. He thought fast. He was convinced the man was lying. He was certain he was not what he pretended to be. A real scavenger would not have left the baby carriage with all his treasures in it unattended outside. And he had fielded his attempt to shock him into revealing himself beautifully. The man was good. Damned good. If he couldn’t be broken fast—now, when he had been caught off guard—he’d never break. He had to play rough.
What was it Lee used to say? Never hit a man when he’s down. Kick him. He took a deep breath. “It’s no use. Colonel Steinmetz,” he said with deceptive calm. “We know who you are. We know why you are here.” He looked directly into the man’s pale blue eyes. “I have a message for you. Written by your wife. . . . Before she died!”
The German’s eyes briefly widened. The muscles in his jaws momentarily corded. That was all. It was enough.
Tom had known what he would see. That unmistakable “look” of perfect control abruptly jolted—and just as quickly regained.
For a moment the two men stood facing each other, eyes locked. Then the German slowly turned and walked to the window. In silence he stood staring into space.
Maria . . . It was over. So soon. He had given himself away. Like a novice he had given himself away. He knew the reaction he had been unable to check had not gone unnoticed by the American officer.
He had taken a calculated risk. And lost. Everything. When he became aware that the building was surrounded and he was being watched, he’d tried to brazen out his disguise. A decrepit old scavenger, sleeping off his fatigue in an empty house. Why not? There were countless thousands of them. But the odds had been stacked against him. He, too, was dead.
Without turning around, he finally asked, “My . . . son?” His voice was dark and low.
“With your sister. He’s all right.”
The German turned to face Tom. He was once again in control of himself. But something had burned out in his eyes. His gray face was slack. “My wife,” he asked softly. “How did she die?”
Tom had a quick mental glimpse of the misshapen corpse obscenely dangling from the cell window bars.
“She . . . killed herself, Colonel. Rather than talk.” He stopped. What was the use of telling the man the whole truth? What use were the gory details now?
Steinmetz seemed to stand a little straighter A good woman, his wife. “You said a message?”
Tom nodded.
She had been right. She had known her husband would get her message. But she had not known that it would be delivered by him, her hated enemy.
“She asked you to . . . carry on,” he said quietly.
Steinmetz looked away. “What will happen to me now?” It was a question of simple curiosity.
“You will be taken to Army Interrogation Center, Colonel, where they’ll question you. We know you are on a special mission. They’ll find out exactly what back there.”
Steinmetz smiled, thin-lipped with his mouth only. “I doubt it.” He searched in vain for an insignia of rank on Tom’s uniform. There was none. Only two officer’s “US” emblems were visible on the American’s collar. Curious. But the man was obviously an officer.
“I doubt that, Herr Offizier,” he said, his voice oddly lifeless and flat. “I am only a very small cog in a very great machine. A great undertaking. Greater than you can ever imagine. An undertaking you will never know. That you cannot stop!”
An alarm suddenly shrieked in Tom’s mind. He leaped at the German. “Grab him!” he shouted. “Grab his jaw!”
But he was too late.
Steinmetz bit down hard. In his mouth the false tooth containing the cyanide was crushed. For a split moment his eyes seemed to bulge from their restraining sockets, staring with desperate triumph at Tom. His face contorted in agony; his whole body was wracked by a violent convulsion, and he fell heavily to the floor. A savage spasm shot through him. His legs jerked once. Once again. He was dead. And with him the secret of his mission.
Tom stared at the body sprawled at his feet. He should have known. God damn it! He should have known!
He turned to Sergeant Rosenfeld. The young soldier looked stricken. You and me, buddy, Tom thought bitterly. We both fucked up. But at least your fuck-up was corrected. Mine can never be. . . . “Have Graves Registration pick him up,” he said curtly.
“Yes, sir.”
Without looking back, Tom started to walk from the room. Rosenfeld hesitated. Should he speak up? Or should he let well enough alone and keep his big damned mouth shut?
“Sir!” he said.
Tom turned to him. “What is it?”
Rosenfeld bent over a stack of debris lying in a corner of the room. He pulled an old burlap bag from under a pile of broken plaster. He held it out toward Tom. “This bag, sir.” He swallowed. “The . . . the colonel, that is . . . the rag picker had one just like it In the street He doesn’t now. Maybe . . . maybe this is it?”
Tom was at his side in two strides. He took the bag from him. He spilled the contents out onto the floor. Quickly he glanced at the odds and ends of junk. Nothing. He picked up a small tin box. He opened it. It contained half a dozen dirty cigarette butts. But under them was a piece of paper. Folded. He dumped the butts and pried the paper out. He unfolded it. He stared at it.
There was the official embossed Nazi emblem—the eagle, wings spread wide, holding the oak-leaf wreath with the swastika in its claws.
“Führerhauptquartier,” the date line read—“Führer Headquarters—-den 7. April 1945.” And printed underneath: “Geheime Kommandosache—Top Secret.”
Two prominent black stamps had been affixed:
GEHEIM
[Secret]
CHEF-SACHE!
NUR DURCH OFFIZIER!
