Eva (48 page)

Suddenly she felt a feeble kick in her stomach. Gently she put her hands across the swelling.

She wondered if the little one was seasick, too.

She sighed.

All would be well once they reached Bari.

Bologna had long since been left behind. There had been no difficulties in changing trains, but there had been an hour’s delay.

Woody scrunched down in the corner of his seat next to the window. It was getting late. Already darkness was obliterating the countryside. It had been a long day, and he wanted to try to get some rest before hitting Bari the next day.

It would not be easy. The wooden bench was uncomfortably hard; the old rolling stock jolted along rails that attested to the fact that the roadbed had not seen adequate maintenance for a long time; the air in the railroad car was stifling and foul-smelling— apparently the Italians preferred their cars hermetically sealed, and to top it all, his damned gum hurt like the devil. Besides, he admitted ruefully to himself, he missed Ilse. For a fleeting instant he wondered what she had done after they separated; then he swept it from his mind. It was no good to start speculating. Tomorrow he would be in Bari. Tomorrow would be the day.

He was suddenly aware of a commotion at the far end of the car. He looked—and sat up with a start.

At the door, having just entered the car, stood an MP and a
carabiniere
—an Italian policeman.

Automatically Woody’s hand touched the pocket where he kept his travel permit and identity papers. Or rather, Pietro’s ID papers. He glanced toward the two men. They were going from seat to seat, examining the papers of every traveller.

His mind raced. He had not had to show Pietro’s papers to anyone as yet. Would he get away with it? It was quite possible. But the travel permit, the only one he had, the one given him by Bazzano, was a different story. It permitted him to go to Rome.
Rome
—not down the Adriatic Coast to Bari!

What could he do?

Not show the permit at all? They’d kick him off the train, take him into custody. Bluff it out? Fat chance. Claim he’d gotten on the wrong train by mistake and would switch as soon as he could? Sure, and they’d see to it he did just that.

Whatever he decided to do, he would never get to Bari.

Dammit, there
had
to be another way!

He strained to think. His mind was blank.

The two men were almost upon him. The MP turned to the man next to him.

“
Permesso per viaggiare,”
he demanded gruffly. “Travel permit.”

Woody closed his eyes.

It would be his turn next.

S
UDDENLY HE HAD AN IDEA.
It was crazy, but with a little luck it might work. Anyway, it was all he could come up with.

He put his left hand to his cheek and stuck his right index finger into his mouth. A quick, sharp rake with his nail opened the healing hole in his gum. The pain that knifed through him almost made him cry out, but only a soft moan escaped him. The blood was instantly oily and warm in his mouth.

He kept his eyes shut, his left hand to his cheek, and leaned into the corner.

He felt a hand shake him.

“
Svegliati!”
he heard the MP call. “Wake up!”

Groggily he opened his eyes and turned toward the man, keeping his hand to his cheek.

“
Permesso per viaggiare,”
the MP barked.

Woody nodded his head. With his right hand he fished out his travel permit from his inside jacket pocket. He shook it open.

A sudden coughing spasm overtook him. Blood spewed from his mouth, splattering on the paper and trickling down his chin.

“
Diavolo!
” he mumbled in confusion. “
Mi dispiace
—I’m sorry.” He removed his left hand from his cheek and tried to wipe the blood off the paper, effectively smearing it all over. He pulled down his lip and opened his bloody mouth. “
Ho perduto un dente,”
he snuffled. “I lost a tooth.”

He held out the soggy, blood-stained paper toward the MP. “
Eccolo,”
he said thickly. “Here it is.”

The MP peered distastefully at the blood-smudged paper. Only the official printed heading and the dated stamp were clearly readable. The rest was largely obscured by the blood smears. The MP did not touch the permit.

“Okay,” he snapped. He turned away.

Woody pocketed the permit. With his tongue he gingerly probed the reopened wound in his jaw. Shit! It had just begun to heal. Still, he grinned to himself, his ass had been saved by a hole in his mouth. Some trick!

He sent a fleeting thought to Bernie Haskins. It was just as well that the Corps HQ yank artist had the reputation of being a crackerjack dentist.

He shifted painfully on the rock-hard bench. As if the ditch in his mouth wasn’t enough, he thought, he’d have calluses up to his damned neck by the time he got to Bari.

It was late in the afternoon of Thursday, June 14 when
Signor
Bazzano’s cousin, Mario, piloted his colorful boat into the placid waters of the harbor at Bari.

Willi and Eva, along with the two crew members, were on deck watching the approach. Although Eva never had found her sea legs she felt much better now that the sea was calm, and she was excited at finally reaching their port of embarkation.

She glanced at the two crewmen. They stood apart. She wondered about that. She had thought there would be more of a comradeship between them, working closely together on a small boat as they did. Or perhaps too much familiarity did indeed breed contempt. She had been aware of the big man watching her. She had never actually caught him doing it, but intuitively she had known. It had made her slightly uncomfortable, although with Willi constantly near her, she had felt safe.

The boat chugged through the channel in the breakwater. On the promontory to their right lay the remains of the old city. Willi surveyed it with interest. He had made it a point to find out a little about the place, once he had learned it was their destination. Built by the ancient Illyrians and Greeks and already an important center of the Byzantine rule in southern Italy in the ninth century, it had been cruelly damaged—in fact all but wiped out—in the German air raid on the harbor in December of 1943. At the base of the promontory he could see the big sports stadium presented to the city of Bari by Mussolini as a reward for having had more babies born there than in any other town its size in Italy. Naturally it had been named Bambino Stadium. Ahead on their left, opposite the old city, was the main inner harbor with its wharfs and piers along the east jetty.

It was still a little too early for the lighthouse on the tip of the jetty to be operating. Or perhaps it was still out of commission.

He observed the harbor scene with the greatest interest. There was still much evidence of the brilliantly executed air raid against the Allied shipping in Bari harbor ordered by
Feldmarschall
Kesselring: sunken ships sticking up out of the oily water like the tips of rusty icebergs; demolished warehouses and buildings in ruins; and newly repaired docks and piers. He remembered with pride the accounts of the raid that had filled the front page of every newspaper in Germany. Bari had been the most important Allied seaport in southern Europe. Tankers, ships loaded with ammunition and supplies for the Allied armies, had been piled up in the harbor like flies on a piece of flypaper, moored at the berths at the east jetty, against the breakwater and lying at anchor around the Vito Mole and scattered throughout the harbor waters.

At 1930 hours on December 2, 1943, about thirty JU-88s of
Feldmarschall
Freiherr von Richthofen’s
Luftflotte II
had struck. When the lightning air raid was over half an hour later, seventeen Allied ships—American, British, Norwegian, Italian, and Polish— had been sunk, and eight more severely damaged. The town had been destroyed and the harbor blocked and rendered totally useless. Over a thousand Allied military personnel had been killed outright, and an even greater number of Italian civilians who had been cooperating with them. The raid had all but stopped the advance of Montgomery’s Eighth Army up from the toe of Italy, exactly as
Feldmarschall
Kesselring had planned it. It had been a glorious operation, the most successful air strike against Allied shipping since the triumphant attack by Japan on Pearl Harbor.

Once inside the breakwater Mario navigated his boat toward the old harbor where the fishing fleet was tied up. Here, too, was the boat works they were headed for, the
Cantiere-riparazioni Battelli di Benjamino Montesano.
Willi wondered how long they would be there before boarding their ship for Buenos Aires. At least long enough to get their final papers, he thought, and the medical certificates required by the Argentine immigration authorities.

He heard Mario shout orders to the two crewmen to make ready for the approach to the pier at the marine railway at the boat works, and he watched them begin to position coiled ropes along the starboard side of the boat.

SS Sturmbannführer
Oskar Strelitz had enjoyed his brief stint as a member of Mario’s crew. It had been a welcome change of pace, and he had been able inconspicuously to keep an eye on his charges. He had enjoyed working with his hands and putting his back into the chores aboard the boat.

It had not been difficult for him to persuade Mario to take him on for the trip—and to keep his mouth shut. His motorcycle—the one he had confiscated from that fellow Diehl—had changed hands in the process. Even now it was securely lashed to the mast of the boat. Mario was not a man to take any chances.

They were coming down to the wire. Once Eva and her escort were aboard the ship that was to take them to Argentina, the first part of his duties was done. Phase I of his assignment in Operation Future.

Ahead was Phase II, the distribution and administration of the funds the Führer had deposited in the Swiss banks.

As he hauled the coiled ropes into place he chuckled to himself. Listening to the Führer regaling Bormann in the Bunker with tales of the enormous sums of money that would be available to him
only
if he brought
Frau
Eva to safety, he had almost been able to see the man drool with greed. As the Führer had known he would. He had been afraid the Führer had been overdoing it, but he had quickly realized that the Führer’s truism—people will believe a big lie sooner than a little one—was quite correct. That idiot, Bormann, had eagerly swallowed the bait, no matter that it barely covered the hook. And of course, when the hour of need arose he had traitorously betrayed the Führer’s trust to save his own miserable skin.

There were, of course, funds available in Switzerland, huge funds, and he,
SS Sturmbannführer
Oskar Strelitz, had the key to them. Not Eva Braun Hitler! She had no inkling they even existed, much less how to gain access to them. That had been the lie. That, and the outrageous size of the funds the Führer had dangled before Bormann. A fully justified lie of expedience by the Führer, of course, to ensure his own perpetuation and that of his beliefs. A big lie.

The last big lie of the Führer, Adolf Hitler.

The funds would be used for the purpose for which they were intended: Operation Future, providing assurance that the Führer’s heir one day would rule Germany in the image of his father and once again bring the ideals of his father to the world. This time to triumph.

He looked toward shore. They were approaching the boat works, and Mario was throttling down. Soon they would be safely in the boatyard. Soon
Frau
Eva would be on her way to Argentina and total safety for her and for her child. There was nothing to stop her now—nor to stop the far-reaching plans of Adolf Hitler.

Nothing!

Mario shut the engine down. Slowly the boat drifted toward the pier and the massive marine railway. The railway was hinged down, and the cradle on the solid hauling platform was visible in the water, its two rows of angled, slender supports reaching up patiently from a sturdy base. Like a giant dead crab, Strelitz thought, lying on its back, its legs pointing up lifelessly.

Four or five boatyard workers stood ready to assist in guiding the boat onto the cradle. It had been decided to go all the way and actually haul the boat up into the yard, rather than simply discharge passengers. The closer to routine the arrival of Mario’s boat at the boat works was, the less risk of anyone becoming curious.

Slowly, carefully the boat was guided onto the cradle and secured. The operator in the winch house up on land beyond the turntable pit started the winch. The thick cables grew taut, and slowly the railway rose and the hauling platform with the boat gripped in its cradle moved out of the water toward the turntable.

The massive wooden beams at the ends of the turntable and the hauling platform slipped steadily, inexorably closer and closer until they met over the pulley pit with a resounding thud.

The cradled boat on the platform was hauled onto the turntable, the oil-soaked landing was rotated in the pit to line up with an empty rail spur, and presently Mario’s colorful boat had joined others in Benjamino Montesano’s boat works, resting inconspicuously in the shadow of a huge crane.