Eagles fly, p.2
Eagles Fly, page 2
All of the first-class and most of the tourist-class passengers had already deplaned by the time Hempel had gathered his things and made his way past the first-class galley to the open door.
The stewardess who had waited on him was the only one left at the door.
“It’s been a pleasure, Margory,” he said. His accent was American Midwest.
She smiled. “The pleasure was all mine, Mr. Hempel.”
Hempel guessed the girl was in her early or mid-twenties, and probably from somewhere on the east coast. She was slender, with a well-rounded face and pleasant, soft green eyes. He regretted for a moment that he did not have the time for her. She was obviously interested in him.
He smiled again, left the plane, went downstairs, retrieved his single leather suitcase from incoming luggage, and went through the swinging doors into customs. As he came into the large room that was rapidly filling with passengers from the plane, he stiffened imperceptibly at the sight of several uniformed customs officers. But outwardly he seemed relaxed if somewhat fatigued from the flight as he approached one of the officers and laid his suitcase and matching attaché case on the counter.
“Good afternoon, sir, Welcome to Germany. May I see your passport?”
Hempel smiled as he handed over his American passport. The officer opened it, studied the photograph, then looked up at Hempel’s face before he stamped it and handed it back.
“The purpose of your visit to Germany, Mr. Hempel?”
“I’m a magazine writer, and I’m here to do a series of tourist stories.”
The customs officer smiled. “Have you anything to declare?”
Hempel shook his head.
“If you will just open your suitcase, please.”
Hempel complied, and the officer efficiently went through his things: a couple of suits, underwear, shirts, a pair of shoes, a toiletries kit, and a large, all-band portable radio-cassette tape recorder.
The customs officer looked through the toiletries kit and then picked the radio-recorder out of the suitcase and turned it upside down. “How does this open, sir?”
“Let me,” Hempel said. He could feel a slight trace of sweat in his armpits, and it annoyed him. He laid the radio on the counter, undid the four snaps holding the back cover in place, and opened it. Inside was a maze of electronic circuit boards and components.
“Japanese?” the customs officer asked pleasantly.
Hempel nodded. “Sony.”
“I have a Sony,” the man said. He turned to the attaché case. “Would you open that, please?”
Hempel buttoned up his radio and then opened his attaché case. As the customs man looked through the magazines, two paperback tourist guides, and a few files on German sights of interest, Hempel returned the radio to his suitcase.
“Thank you, sir,” the customs officer said, making a small chalk mark on both pieces of luggage. “Have a pleasant stay in Germany.”
“I will, thank you,” Hempel said, and he left the airport, taking a cab into the city.
All her life the Pan Am stewardess Margory Cummins had a recurring dream that one day she would become a stew for an international airline and would meet the man of her dreams who would marry her. They would settle down in her hometown of Palmer, Massachusetts, or perhaps Cape Cod with a couple of children, a dog, a station wagon, and a white picket fence.
At twenty-eight she was grown-up. She had a job with a major international airline, and she had met plenty of men. Tall men, short men, skinny men, fat men, but mostly men who either had wives or who were too old for her.
Margory had become impatient over the past couple of years. According to the timetable she had carefully worked out for herself, she was already three years overdue for her marriage, two years overdue for her first child, and at this moment she should be pregnant with the second.
And yet, she mused as she lay back in the hot bubble bath in her room, she had not met a likely candidate in all these years. Had not, she smiled, until today.
It was shortly before two in the afternoon, and the two other girls with whom Margory was sharing this room on their twenty-four-hour layover had left earlier to go shopping.
Margory had begged off, claiming tiredness. But it was not tiredness that kept her from going with her friends. It was Wernher Hempel, 12B first class.
She finally got out of the tub, let the water run out, and began drying herself as she thought about Mr. Hempel. Actually, she knew quite a bit about him. His customs declaration form, which he had filled out before they landed, had listed his age as thirty-eight and his occupation as travel editor for a magazine in Minneapolis. He was good-looking, had a nice body, a pleasant smile, a deep masculine voice, and best of all, he had money. You could tell it not only by the way he dressed but by the way he acted.
Jimmy in the cocktail lounge had told her in operations after the flight that Hempel had left him a fifty-dollar tip.
And Franz in local reservations had informed her that Hempel was staying for three days at the Hotel Frankfurt Intercontinental, the best hotel in town.
Only two things could spoil it for her, she thought. The first would be if he was married. He did not wear a gold band, nor did he act like any of the married men she had ever met, so at this moment she felt that possibility was the least of her worries.
The second consideration, however, did cause her some concern.
She let the towel drop to the floor and looked critically at the reflection of her nude body in the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door.
She did not look twenty-eight; she looked more like twenty-two or twenty-three, which could either be an asset or a liability, depending upon how mature Hempel liked his women. Her face was pleasant, her eyes expressive, and her mouth was directly out of a fashion magazine courtesy of more than two thousand dollars worth of dental work over the past eight years.
Her breasts were too small, in her opinion, and her tummy was slightly rounded, but her derriere and long legs were perfectly formed.
She smiled at her reflection. Her major concern was time, she told herself. In order to make a man interested enough to pursue her, she would have to spend time with him.
And she would be damned if Mr. Wernher Hempel of 12B first class was going to spend the remainder of today and tonight alone. With any luck, when she got back on the plane tomorrow afternoon for New York, he would never forget her.
In twenty minutes Margory had put on her makeup, had dressed in a skirt and low-cut, ruffled blouse, and had gone downstairs where she climbed into a cab.
“The Frankfurt Intercontinental,” she told the driver, and she sat back to plan the finer details of the conquest of Mr. Wernher Hempel.
Hempel was not a normal man when it came to sleep. In fact, he could not remember ever having slept eight hours at one stretch like normal people. For him, fifteen-or twenty-minute catnaps several times during a twenty-four-hour period were sufficient.
He had read once that the American inventor Thomas Edison had been the same, and it was one of the reasons that the man had been able to accomplish so much.
Now Hempel rose from one of these catnaps completely refreshed, ready to begin the assignment he had been sent here for.
In the bathroom he peeled off his wig, revealing cropped steel gray hair. He took out the contact lenses that made his eyes blue and pulled off the mustache.
After a quick shower he returned to his suitcase at the foot of his bed and pried the lining loose from its Velcro fasteners. Taped to the lid were two sets of papers; one set identified him as Walter Handel, an agricultural consultant from the University of Nebraska, the other as Walter Holvig, a professor of engineering from the University of Heidelberg. He pulled the German papers out and refastened the lining.
Working quickly but efficiently, as he had been trained, Hempel took his toiletries kit into the bathroom, where he laid out the aftershave lotion bottle and an electric razor. He opened the back of the razor and took out a set of contact lenses, which he placed in his eyes, making them a dark brown. Next he patted a few drops of liquid from the aftershave lotion bottle on his cheeks and nose, which instantly stung like fire. Within a few seconds his face took on a definite reddish hue, the thin capillaries along his cheeks and nose suddenly appearing as the blue tracks of a man in his fifties or perhaps early sixties. The effect would only last for a couple of hours, but it was long enough.
Returning to the bedroom, he replaced the kit in his suitcase and dressed in a dark suit that was baggy and unpressed. He knotted his tie crookedly.
He stuffed his identity papers into his breast pocket, then laid the radio-recorder on the bed and unsnapped the back cover. Four fasteners held the main circuit board in place, and Hempel undid them and lifted the electronic assembly out of its holders. Beneath it was a 9mm Beretta silenced automatic with a full magazine of ammunition. He withdrew the gun and placed it in his belt and put the radio back together.
All of this took less than ten minutes, and before Hempel left his room, he checked his appearance in the bathroom mirror.
Walter Holvig, sixty-two, Heidelberg, looked at him. He smiled, turned, and shuffled like an old man to the door, his mind split into two functions.
A part of him was thinking engineering formulae, students, faculty, research projects. The other, that most secret part of his mind where the real person lived, was going over this assignment and his escape.
No one saw him leave his room, nor did he run into anyone as he went down the back stairs and out the rear entrance of the hotel. Once he was on the street, he merged with the Frankfurt crowds.
Two blocks from the hotel he got into a cab and ordered the driver to take him to the Telecomm, GmbH, building on Theodor-Heuss Allee.
“Sigmund Lascher,” his contact had told him two days ago as they walked along the Boston Commons. The man had come to the bookstore where Hempel worked as a clerk and asked for a copy of a limited edition of the Rise and Fall of the Third Reich. Hempel had told the man they did not have such a book, but the man had insisted, claiming a friend had told him that at least a dozen of the 300-series of the book were to be had at this store.
Hempel suggested he try some of the shops around the Commons, and the man had left. One hour later Hempel was free for his lunch break and he met the man on the Commons.
“There is a file with Lascher’s photograph and other details, along with identity papers for you, at your apartment. Lascher works for Telecomm in Frankfurt. His office is on the seventh floor. Research.”
“What has he done to us?” Hempel asked.
His contact, a well-dressed man in his fifties, stopped and looked across at the State House. “Nothing as yet,” he said. His voice was soft, cultured, but he did not sound as if he came from Boston. His accent was more New York.
Hempel waited for the man to continue.
“Three of our people in Hamburg have been arrested as suspected former members of the SS Enlisted men. It was a foolish move on the part of the State’s Attorney’s office in Hamburg because they have no proof.”
The man looked directly at Hempel. “Our people at Telecomm informed us this morning that Lascher has been commenting on the case, which goes to trial next week. Lascher has been telling anyone who will listen that he knows two of the men from the war, and knows for certain that they were in the SS.”
“What is Lascher’s connection?”
“Beyond the fact he worked for Farben as a research engineer during the war, we don’t know. There hasn’t been enough time to put it together.”
“But he may be telling the truth?”
The man nodded, a grim expression in his eyes. “It is important for us to protect our people. They themselves are not important, but they are comrades. If we let this go, it could get out of hand.”
“I see.”
“Are you willing to accept the assignment?”
“Of course. I’ll be on a plane the day after tomorrow.”
“When will you do it?”
“Immediately,” Hempel said. “Have a suitcase and alternate identity papers waiting for me at Orly in Paris that same night.”
The man nodded. Hempel turned on his heel and headed back to work at the bookstore.
The cab pulled up at the curb; Hempel paid the driver, got out, and entered the Telecomm building, shuffling past the information booth in the lobby.
His shabby appearance elicited some attention, and Hempel made it a point to joke with the elevator operator on the way up. The man would later remember him and would give the police a very accurate description.
On the seventh floor Hempel stepped off the elevator and hesitated only long enough to note the position of the door to the stairwell before he shuffled down the corridor and entered Lascher’s outer office.
The room was large and contained a dozen desks, all occupied. Hempel stepped up to the first desk and bowed slightly.
“Herr Doktor Lascher, bitte,” he said politely.
The woman looked up at him and smiled. “May I say who is calling, mein Herr?”
“Professor Doktor Walter Holvig, Heidelberg.” He leaned slightly forward. “I have something of importance to discuss with the great man,” he said, patting his breast pocket.
The secretary picked up the telephone. “Herr Lascher, there is a Professor Doktor Walter Holvig from the University of Heidelberg here to see you. He says it is a matter of importance.” She nodded a moment later. “Yes, sir,” she said, then replaced the receiver. “You may go in, Herr Professor.”
“Danke,” Hempel said, and he shuffled past her desk, knocked once on Lascher’s door, and entered his office.
Lascher was a barrel-chested old man with a thick shock of white hair and gold-rimmed glasses. He looked up, curiosity on his face as Hempel closed the door behind him, reached beneath his coat, and withdrew the Beretta.
“Odessa sends its regards, Herr Lascher,” Hempel said, and as Lascher held out his hand and opened his mouth to cry out for help, Hempel fired two shots, the first hitting the man in the forehead and the second in his chest.
The silenced Beretta made only a slight plopping sound, but Lascher was flung backward, his head striking the edge of the bookcase behind his desk with a dull thud. He slumped sideways out of his chair.
Hempel replaced the gun in his belt, took a deep breath, turned, and went back out into the office, closing the door behind him.
The secretary looked up.
“Forgive me,” Hempel said apologetically. “Herr Doktor Lascher is looking at some papers I brought him and wishes not to be disturbed. Meanwhile, like the old fool I am, I have forgotten my briefcase in my car. I will return in a moment.”
“Certainly,” the secretary said, but Hempel was already in the corridor, shuffling toward the stairwell door.
Ten minutes at the most, he thought, as he opened the door and headed down the seven flights of stairs.
The secretary would not become curious until Hempel failed to return, unless Lascher received a phone call or another visitor. She would remember him, as would the elevator operator and cab drivers. But they would remember Walter Holvig, who would cease to exist as soon as he returned to his hotel room.
If anyone happened to see the old man going into the young American Wernher Hempel’s room, they might put two and two together and would get an accurate description of Hempel from the stewardess on the airplane. But Hempel did not exist either.
A taxi was just passing when Hempel emerged from the Telecomm building. He waved it down and got in, giving the driver an address a few doors away from his hotel.
As they drove across town he kept looking out the rear window, each time making sure the driver was not watching him, but all the way across town there was no sign of pursuit.
When the cabby left him off, Hempel waited until the taxi was out of sight before he walked to the hotel and entered the busy lobby. No one paid him any attention as he took the elevator up one floor beyond his own.
He hurried down the corridor and, making sure no one was there to see him, took the stairs down one flight and hurried along the corridor to his room, where he unlocked the door and entered, again making sure no one had seen him.
“Who are you?” It was a woman’s voice.
Hempel turned around as Margory Cummins emerged from the bathroom, and for an instant they just looked at each other until recognition dawned in the young woman’s eyes.
“I know you,” she started to say, but Hempel was across the room to her in a few quick strides.
He grabbed her by the throat and pushed her back into the bathroom, closing the door behind them with his free hand. “How did you get in here?” he snapped.
The girl was frightened, her eyes wide, her mouth open. He relaxed the pressure on her throat.
“I asked how you got in here,” he said.
“You’re Mr. Hempel …” she started to say, but again Hempel clamped down on her throat, cutting off her wind.
“Who are you working for? Who sent you?”
The girl’s face was beginning to turn a deep red, and she struggled against his powerful grip.
“I want answers! Now!” Hempel said. Once again he loosened his grip.
“The floor maid … she let me in … I told her we were lovers …” Margory gasped.
“Who sent you?”
She shook her head. “No one sent me. I came here to … see you.”
Hempel tried to think. He had covered every step. There was no way anyone could have known what he was here for.
He looked at the girl. She had recognized him despite his disguise. She knew too much. It was a shame, but it had been his own fault. He should have anticipated such a possibility when he saw how she had looked at him on the airplane.
There was a strong probability that she had told someone that she was coming here to see him. In addition the stupid floor maid who had let her in knew that she was here.
Soon there would be a manhunt for Walter Holvig, the professor from Heidelberg who had murdered Doktor Lascher. And soon, he thought grimly, there would be a manhunt for Wernher Hempel, the murderer of Margory Cummins.
