Read Five Past Midnight Online

Authors: James Thayer

Tags: #Fiction, #General

Five Past Midnight (5 page)

BOOK: Five Past Midnight
7.84Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

She removed the one-time pad and a pencil from a pouch in the suitcase. She waited until the dial on her watch clicked onto the hour. Her radio was set at 13,500 kilocycles. She removed her hat to place the headset over her hair. The set painfully pinched her ears. She tapped her call sign,
PAT,
arbitrary letters she had chosen during her first broadcast. Then she sent a series of
Vs
so London could precisely tune to her signal. She repeated the
dit dit dit dah
three times. Her next letters were NA, meaning she had no message to send that night.

From her headset came a series of
Vs.
England was acknowledging her signal. The Morse ended. That was all she ever received. She was about to remove her headset when the receiver stuttered into life again. An actual message. She fumbled for the pad. Unable to see the paper clearly in the dark, she jabbed her dots and dashes across the pad. Twenty seconds later it ended. She clattered an acknowledgment of
Vs.

Deep clefts grew between her brows, and a moment passed before she could take off the headset and lift herself from the chair. The message was brief, so she decoded it as she sat there, squinting mightily, as if that might help her see better in the dim light. Decoded, the message said only, "Follow Horseman's instructions."

She knew of no one named Horseman.

Her sudden responsibility slowed her as she wound the antennas and packed the suitcase. Carrying the case, she cautiously descended the stairs, again whiffing the body hidden in the ruins of the bakery. She paused at the door, checking the street. A dozen refugees were tramping along, kicking up puffs of new snow, looking for shelter for the night. She waited until they had passed, then darted from the building, and she was worried.

And she would have been more worried had she known of the black Opel two blocks away. The car had been traveling back and forth along the roads, but always closer and closer to her, its radio direction finder moving left and right. But when Katrin ended her broadcast, the car slowed, then stopped, having failed again to find her in time.

 

 

5

 

DIETRICH WAS STARING at his wooden bowl, attempting to occupy his mind by guessing whether the white bits floating in the clear fluid were rice or maggots. He tried to push aside hopes that his doctor might visit again. One week had passed since the first visit, and the doctor had said he would return again in a week, if possible. He had come at mealtime, seven days ago. The chance he might return had been a spark of hope for the prisoner, as faint and improbable as it was persistent. Seeing somebody other than the executioner and Gestapo agent Koder come through the door was a glittering prospect. Dietrich slowly lifted the spoon, having determined that once he sipped the soup, all possibility of the visit would end.

The latch sounded. Wearing a knotted frown, Rudolf Koder pushed open the metal door and stood aside to let the doctor into the cell.

Dietrich closed his eyes a moment at the answered prayer. Then he carefully put the bowl to one side and stood to greet the visitor.

"Otto, you look even worse than last week," Kurt Scheller said, gripping his friend's arms.

"You humor me." Dietrich's voice cracked, and he failed to make himself sound anything but pitiable.

The doctor helped lower Dietrich back to the bench. Scheller's face was narrow, with cheeks so drawn that the outline of his teeth showed on them. His neck was as thin as his wrists, and he was so slight he was lost in his clothes. His smile was warm.

"Did you find out anything about Maria?" Dietrich's words tumbled forth. "Could Golz find out anything? Did you talk to Wunnin- burg? Did they get anywhere?"

Scheller shook his head. "I'm afraid not, Otto."

Dietrich closed his eyes. Erwin Golz was director of Berlin police, Dietrich's superior. And Alfred Wunninburg was general of police, Golz's superior. Maria Dietrich had been arrested because of the new practice called
Sippenhaft
—the arrest of kith and kin.

"I spoke with both Golz and Wunninburg, Otto. Several times. They tried hard, but they couldn't locate her."

''Maria is alive, though?"

"They couldn't even tell me that. She was arrested soon after you were, and has disappeared somewhere in the political prison system. They told me police officers don't have any influence in those places. Director Golz said he has used all his chits just to get me inside Lehrter- strasse Prison to see you these few times."

A roach crawled along the floor toward the bucket that served as the privy. Dietrich rubbed his forehead, hiding his eyes. He didn't want the doctor to see his tears. But Dr. Scheller had served the Dietrich family for a generation, and knew his patient. He lowered himself to the bench and gripped Dietrich's hand.

"Don't give up hope, Otto," the doctor said in a low voice. "You are still alive. You have survived this long. Don't give up."

Dietrich looked up. He whispered, "Did you bring it?"

Scheller answered lamely, "The guards took my black bag away from me before letting me into your cell and ..."

"You aren't answering my question, Kurt. Did you bring it?"

Scheller inhaled hugely. "I'm dead set against this, Otto. It's against all my beliefs and all my training."

"And that's damned easy for you to say, because in two minutes you are going to waltz out of here back into the sunlight." Dietrich gripped the doctor's arm. "You brought it. Give it to me."

Scheller glanced at the closed cell door, then he pulled off a shoe and held it upside down. A silver pill dropped into his hand. Dietrich reached for it, but the doctor closed his hand.

"Otto, you must pledge something to me."

Dietrich scowled with frustration.

Scheller continued, "You won't use this until all hope has ended, and you can no longer endure."

Dietrich nodded noncommittally.

"Do you pledge that to me?" Scheller persisted. "Do you swear? Maybe there will be good news about Maria. We can still hope. Wait until you hear."

After a moment Dietrich answered quietly, "I'll wait until I hear."

Indecision written on his face, the doctor slowly opened his hand and let Dietrich claim the pill.

"What do I do?" the detective asked.

"Bite down on it, and close your eyes. It'll do the rest."

"How long does it take?"

"Thirty seconds."

The cell door opened. Agent Koder said, "Your time is up, Doctor."

Scheller rose from the bench. "Remember your pledge, Otto." He stepped toward the door. "I'll try to get in next week again. Wait for me. You'll wait for me?"

The cyanide pill in his hand, Dietrich lay back on the cot and turned to the wall, not strong enough to watch his friend disappear through the door.

 

 

6

 

LIEUTENANT HEYDEKAMPF
detested these marches, but the Geneva Convention allowed them so he bit down and paced along the wall near the chapel, waiting for it to end. Every time news of an Allied victory reached Colditz Castle, the POWs would march in brisk formation, to and from in the tiny yard, flaunting the Allied achievement. The British and American POWs had become expert in tight about-faces.

Today the POWs were marching to celebrate the United States Ninth Army's capture of Essen, an event that had happened just the day before, April 9. Heydekampf knew the POWs had a radio hidden in the castle because the entire POW population learned the BBC news on the same day it was broadcast. Despite searches that had entirely destroyed the wards of the SAO and Captain David Davis — who Heydekampf suspected was chief of X-Organization, the POW escape committee — Heydekampf s flying squads had been unable to find the radio.

The left side of Heydekampf's scalp was open and raw from the fire, so he was without his cap. Bandages were patched around his neck and wrist, but he seemed to hurt all over. Even his missing left hand seemed to be pumping pain into him.

The POWs were using an American marching chant: "She left. She left. She left, right, she left. You had a good home. You had a good job. You had a good life, but she left, right, she left." The interminable refrain crawled up Heydekampf's back. With the war going as it was, the POWs marched every day.

The chant abruptly stopped, and Heydekampf’s head jerked up at a new sound. The wail of a cat whose tail was being pulled. Or the screech of fingernails dragged across a blackboard. A chilling noise he had never before heard. Coming from the formation of marchers.

He blew his whistle and the parade halted. The sound continued. The devil's dog braying, it sounded to Heydekampf.

"What is that noise?" he demanded in English. "What have you got?"

Harold MacMillan, of the Argyle and Sutherland Highlanders, called out, "Bagpipes, sir." He was standing at attention at the back of the POW formation.

Heydekampf charged across the yard to the POW. MacMillan held the bag under his arm. His fingers were on the chanter. Three drones lay across his shoulder. MacMillan was the shortest man at the castle, barely five feet one. He said in a thick Scots brogue, "The windbag has the Black Watch pattern. Lovely, isn't it?"

For a moment the German lieutenant was frozen by the sheer brazenness of the bagpipes. This musical instrument — if it could be called that — lifted the POWs' impudence to an outrageous new height.

He sputtered, "Where did you get that, MacMillan?"

"Lieutenant, may I speak with you?"

Startled at the voice, Heydekampf turned to find the camp commandant, Colonel Janssen, standing at his shoulder.

"Of course, sir."

The colonel led him to a spot near the blackened ruin of the delousing shed. The ward wall above the shed had been colored by the flames. That section of the castle, called the Saalhaus, was for senior POW officers, and in ancient times had been the armory. The stone had resisted the fire.

Janssen had won an Iron Cross at Flanders in the Great War, and he wore the decoration on his tunic. With the shortages, he had lost weight, and his gray uniform coat hung loosely on him. He had a miser's face, with tiny features and suspicious eyes.

He said, "Lieutenant, about the bagpipes."

"Yes, sir?"

"I am allowing the prisoners to accompany their marches with that infernal instrument. I see no harm in it."

The parade resumed. The bagpipes' caterwauling made Heydekampf ball his fists. The prisoners marched in time, their wood clogs clacking against the cobblestones.

Lieutenant Heydekampf said through teeth clenched against the din, "Where'd it come from, sir?"

Colonel Janssen's face was carefully deadpan. "I purchased it at a curiosity shop in Leipzig yesterday."

A puzzled moment passed, then understanding creased Heydekampf's face. "And you received a good-conduct testimonial in return, is that it, sir?"

The colonel drew himself up stiffly. "You are being insubordinate." Then he softened. "I know you are dedicated to the service of this camp, Lieutenant Heydekampf. Thanks to you, no POWs have escaped in all your time here as camp officer, a remarkable achievement considering the escape artists interned here. But your dedication to the Reich should not cloud your understanding of what is to come for us."

Heydekampf asked with acid sweetness, "You are saying that we must look out for ourselves, is that it, Colonel?"

"POW Captain MacMillan signed a document saying that I had treated him humanely during his two years at Colditz. This piece of paper may get me through difficult times in the weeks to come. To insinuate that I've acted traitorously is unfair to me, Lieutenant."

Heydekampf chewed back his anger. The colonel was right. Janssen was a patriot and a fine prison administrator. And he was always fair. He had divided evenly among the guards the American airmen's emergency rations found in the downed Mitchell bomber, which had crashed in a pear orchard a kilometer from the castle. Heydekampf's portion had come to half a can of Spam and a Hershey bar, his first chocolate in three months. None of the American crew had survived. Their bodies had been pulled from the wreckage and buried in the military cemetery near the river. Their dogtags would be given to the Red Cross.

The good-conduct testimonials had lately become a currency in the camp. Heydekampf knew that Colditz's other
Lageroffizier,
Lieutenant Birzer, had traded a precious kilo of bacon for one from the POW tank officer, Lieutenant Burke. Some of the guards were gathering them like children collected stamps before the war, believing that if they could present twenty of the testimonials their blamelessness would be proven beyond doubt.

Heydekampf smiled crookedly. "Couldn't you have made it a trumpet, Colonel? I don't know how much of this racket I can endure."

"POW MacMillan was a difficult bargainer, and..."

Shouts came from the marching formation. Janssen and Hey- dekampf turned to the sound. A fight had erupted among the prisoners. The bagpipe was thrown into the air. Two prisoners fell to the ground, flailing at each other. The other POWs roared, quickly choosing sides.

Heydekampf rushed toward the fray then hesitated, quickly swinging his gaze the length of the yard. Fistfights were classic POW ruses, designed to draw attention away from an escape. The lieutenant saw nothing unusual. He started again for the two brawlers. One of them was Harold MacMillan.

"Break it up," he bellowed in English. He waded into the crowd.

Another shout, a desperate animal shriek of fear, instantly halted the fight. The cry came from the direction of the Saalhaus, the same corner of the yard where the remains of the delousing shed were.

Heydekampf pivoted to the sound. He saw a body slam into the ground.

"No," he gasped, then sprinted toward the body, pushing aside POWs. He came to the broken form.

It had come to rest facedown at the base of a five-story wing of the castle. A brown cardboard suitcase made from a Red Cross bulk-food box had hit the ground nearby, as had two moss-covered shingles.

BOOK: Five Past Midnight
7.84Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Other books

Hopeful by Shelley Shepard Gray
Rekindled by C.J. McKella
The Conviction by Robert Dugoni
Screen Burn by Charlie Brooker
Sullivan's Law by Nancy Taylor Rosenberg