Sleeper Agent (25 page)

Suddenly Scharf moaned. He stirred.

Tom tensed. His gun held steady, he watched the wounded man trying to sit up.

Suddenly two shots rang out thunderously in the confinement of the cellar room. Scharf’s face disintegrated hideously in splattering crimson. Lorenz had made certain he would never talk again.

Tom felt the sour bile rise in his craw. He swallowed. For a few seconds he lay motionless. Then, slowly, carefully, noiselessly, he began to turn himself around until his head was where his feet had been.

Quietly he lifted one foot. Galvanizing into action, he gave a deliberate violent yank on the quilted bedspread with his raised foot.

In the same instant he catapulted himself forward, clearing his head and shoulders at the opposite end of the bed. Even as he did, he slammed two shots at Lorenz’s position at the foot of the stairs.

He hit nothing. Lorenz was not there. For a moment he listened tensely. There was not a sound. Cautiously he stood up. Every muscle fiber alert, he looked around.

On the floor Scharf sprawled in crimson death. Lorenz was gone.

Regensburg was dark. Silent. Empty of its people. Only grim patrols mounted by the occupying forces moved through the deserted streets. It was long past curfew.

The figure that moved stealthily, with soundless caution, through the warped and twisted metal beams and girders, the mangled machinery and the bomb-blasted brickwork of the gutted Messerschmitt factory, seemed nothing but a shadow with a furtive life of its own.

Deep in the ruins a makeshift shelter had been erected, looking little different from other piles of rubble.

Cautiously, with whisper movements, the figure approached. It was a man. He stopped at the shelter. Quickly he knocked on a large slab of fire-blackened wood serving as a door. Once . . . twice . . . once again. He waited.

Presently the slab was pushed aside a few inches.

The man outside spoke, his voice a tense whisper. “It is Lorenz,” he said. “
I
have a target!
”

10

Rudi was cold. He had been soaked, crossing the canal during the night, and he had taken off his uniform jacket to let it dry out. He had checked his German ID papers. They were not damaged. They were safe in the breast pocket of his jacket, wrapped in their wax paper. He’d need them to cross the border into Denmark, still under German control. He shivered.

It was barely dawn, and the day promised to be cold and raw. It had been raining, and the ground was soggy and wet. He was sitting on an overturned wheelbarrow behind a barn, resting. The farm was just outside a small village he’d passed earlier. The black-and-white road sign said,
GROSS WITTENSEE
.
He had looked it up on his map. He was still more than seventy kilometers from the border.

“
Verflucht!
”

He was a full day behind the schedule he had set up for himself. Everything had gone well for the first couple of days. He had been heeding the warnings of Brigadeführer Arnold and Bormann himself. He had avoided all contact with anyone, civilian or military. And he’d had no trouble ducking the enemy patrols he’d spotted on his way along the Elbe River.

He had succeeded in slipping between Hamburg and Lübeck, as the British forces were closing in behind him, cutting across the peninsula. All day Wednesday, the 2nd, he’d heard the battle raging around the town of Lübeck. Seen the flashes of artillery fire on the horizon. It had died down. He assumed that Lübeck had fallen. Hamburg, perhaps, as well. Maybe even Berlin. But
he
had gotten through. He was on his way to the Danish border.

Then, near Segeberg, some fifty kilometers from the Kiel Canal, the goddamned motprcycle—a BMW, 600cc he’d commandeered at Wannsee when he set out—had broken down. It had taken him all the rest of the day and most of the night to make it to the canal—on a stolen bicycle.

Here, he’d had to abandon the bike. He couldn’t get it across. And he had made it on foot to his present position, on a broken wheelbarrow behind a ramshackle barn, on a run-down farm near a lousy little village. Still seventy kilometers from the goddamned border. Shit!

He had decided to abandon his cautious back-road approach and make it to the main highway to Flensburg. There was a lot of military traffic headed for town. He’d take a chance. Try to hitch a ride. It was the only way he’d make it in time.

He was hungry. He’d already scrounged around a bit on the farm and found a few vegetables. He’d dumped them into the little sackcloth bag he carried for such foraging. Perhaps he could beat a farmer’s wife to gathering a few eggs.

He stood up stiffly. He put his sack and his rolled-up jacket under his arm and walked around the corner of the barn in search of the chicken coop. Near the barn the farmer apparently was building himself a potato pit Or beet cellar. Pieces of old lumber and mounds of dirt were scattered about.

Rudi was stepping over a heavy beam in the half light when he suddenly lost his footing on the slippery ground. He pitched headlong into the mud. His sack and jacket flew from under his arm, slid across the muddy slush, and disappeared.

He stood up. He cursed the damned farmer. His pants, his shirt were caked with dirt. He walked over to where his things had suddenly disappeared. He found himself standing at the edge of the excavation for the pit—a square ten-foot-deep hole in the ground.

In the dawning light he peered into the pit. The bottom was wet and muddy. Among a few rocks, small pieces of wood and other rubble he could make out his sack and his jacket.

He looked around. At one end of the pit stood a rickety ladder. He climbed down. His boots made unpleasant squishy sounds in the mud as he walked over to retrieve his belongings.

The food sack lay among a pile of small rocks. As he bent down to pick it up, one of the rocks suddenly sprang to life and scurried across the slimy dirt floor to cower in a corner of the pit.

Rudi jumped back with a startled cry. He stared into the dim corner. It was a huge rat. Its coat was wet and slick, plastered around its body. It crouched in the corner, staring at Rudi, with wary eyes glinting like jet-black beads.

For a split moment Rudi had felt abject fear wash over him. He glared at the rat. He felt a cold hatred take possession of him, a hatred that was the cumulation of all the shitty little things that had gone wrong. He welcomed it. The goddamned animal!

He looked around the pit. Among the debris lay a piece of rusty pipe about two feet long. Carefully, never taking his eyes off the wary rat, Rudi picked up the pipe, holding it at one end like a club. Stealthily he approached the cowering creature pressing itself in the dirt corner, deflating itself. Rudi lifted the pipe over his head. Suddenly he smashed it down on the rat. For a tangible moment the squishy thud hung sluggishly in the gray dawn. But the rat was gone. Only the mud had taken the deadly impact of Rudi’s blow. The rat had scurried off.

Rudi was furious. Damned beast! He searched around. He spotted the rat crouched in the opposite corner. This time he slowly walked over—the pipe raised—and lashed out against the terror-stricken animal with sudden ferocity. Again he missed.

He was consumed with malice. Relentlessly he stalked the fleeing rat, fiercely striking out at it again and again, missing every time. Finally he trapped the desperate rat in a corner where a large boulder allowed only one way to escape. The animal’s beady eyes shone with fear and hate as it watched him, coiled in the very tip of the corner trap.

He lifted his pipe, coldly staring back at the trapped animal. He savored the anticipated sight of its mangled corpse.

Suddenly the rat opened its mouth. Rudi had a fleeting glimpse of long yellow curved fangs. The animal shrieked a hideous scream and hurled itself in a steel-coil leap straight for Rudi’s face.

Rudi reacted with the shock of instinct. He swung the pipe at the leaping rat. He missed. Dammit, the iron pipe was too heavy, too long for a quick swing. With profound revulsion he felt the sickening, slimy impact of the rat on his cheek. But he had acted with instinctive speed. The rat’s teeth found no target.

The animal hit the slushy ground beyond him and turned at once. He whirled on it. Again the rat screamed, a hideous shriek that knifed through him with eerie terror.

For a lightning moment he had a vision of a gray figure sneaking through tall grass . . . a distant scream . . .

Mausi!

And the rat leaped. It cought hold of the front of his shirt and clung there in savage, desperate rage. He stared down into its upturned face, filthy yellow fangs exposed and pitch-black eyes gleaming with hate, straining toward his face.

In sickened disgust he slapped the creature off. He backed away from the maddened animal. In self-destructive hatred it followed him, leaped, hurtling itself upon him. Again and again. And it kept on screaming.

He was unaware of his awkward fending with the unwieldy length of pipe. Of sloshing and sliding in the slimy mud. He was aware only of his mushrooming panic. And the screaming. In growing terror he retreated from the charging rat He stumbled against the ladder.

The ladder! It slid along the wet earth wall and tumbled onto the muddy bottom.

Frantically he bent down, feeling behind him for the fallen ladder. The rat leaped again—and he barely hit it with a backhand blow, deflecting it from his eyes.

The rat tumbled in the mire. Enraged, Rudi flung the pipe at it He turned and grabbed the ladder. He slammed it against the dirt wall and swarmed up the rungs to the safety above.

He stood panting on the rim of the pit. He looked down into its depth. Below, the crazed rat sat up on its haunches, shrieking its frenzy at him. He was filled with black hate. He picked up a large, heavy boulder. He held it over the rim. He lit it drop. The squishy thud was the sound of death. The screaming stopped.

For a moment he stood silent Still. He was drenched with sweat. In the chilly morning it was turning bleakly cold on his skin. Slowly he climbed down into the pit. He kept his eyes averted from the large boulder half sunk into the soggy, muddy bottom. He picked up his food sack and jacket and started back up the ladder. When he reached the top he saw the farmer. And the shotgun pointed squarely at his head.

Grimly the man motioned him up. “What are you doing here?” he asked. His voice was flat.

Rudi shrugged. Without seeming to, he studied the man. Harmless. Unless stupidity was dangerous. In his fifties. Except, with farmers it was always difficult to tell.

“I asked you what you are doing on my property,” the farmer repeated. His voice was cold.

“Killing a rat.” Rudi pointed into the pit. “Down there.”

The farmer did not react He motioned with his shotgun. “Empty that sack,” he ordered.

Rudi tensed. He obeyed. The contents of the food sack spilled out upon the ground. A crust of stale bread wrapped in newspaper. Three potatoes. A handful of pea pods. And five small carrots. From the farmer’s vegetable garden.

The man stared at the food. He took a better grip on his gun. “From
my
farm?” he asked. He already knew the answer.

Rudi nodded. He suddenly had a chilling thought. The man might turn out to be a danger after all. He might be one of those self-righteous fanatics. He might take him for a deserter! And deserters were fair game. He looked at the shotgun. It was still pointed at his gut.

He began to sweat again. “Look,” he said anxiously. I know what you may be thinking. But I am
not
a deserter. I have been discharged. I have papers. Proper papers. Right here in my jacket My
Soldbuch
—”

The farmer was not listening to him. He was staring at the carrots and the rest of the food on the ground. “Pick it up,” he said.

Rudi began to put the food back into his sack.

“Five scrawny carrots,” the farmer said in his flat voice. “Not much of a breakfast.” He looked at Rudi. “You need something more than that. I can give you some warm milk. It will do you good. We have no coffee. We have not had coffee in . . . in . . .” He let the sentence trail away. He turned and started away. “Come with me,” he said.

Rudi’s mind raced. He was thunderstruck. The old goat was actually offering him food! He stopped himself short. It was a trap! He thought quickly. The farmer would feed him. Keep him happy—while he sent for the military police. The SS. That was it And Rudi would end up swinging from a rope!

He could refuse to go with the man. And let him turn in the alarm? No go. Perhaps the man really did want to help? To give him food? And, perhaps not He could not afford to find out.

He bent down to pick up his food sack. He fumbled his paratrooper knife from his boot—and lunged up, burying the knife blade deep in the man’s kidney.

The farmer was strong. Strong as an ox. He did not utter a sound. He turned around slowly and stared at Rudi with bulging, uncomprehending eyes. And he crashed to the soggy, muddy ground at his killer’s feet

Rudi jammed his knife repeatedly into the wet ground. It would clean the blade, at least until he could do a better job. He looked at the dead farmer.

“Trust nobody,” the Reichsleiter had said.

He touched the body with his boot.
He
can be trusted, he thought. Now. Had the man really wanted to help? Had he? He felt a twinge of doubt Of regret He dismissed it summarily.

Had he not read the Führer’s words: “Conscience is a disease of life.” It was true. It was weakness.

He tucked his sack and his jacket under his arm. Rapidly he walked away.

Two hours later he stood at the main highway to Flensburg. Once more he was wearing his full uniform. Traffic was already heavy on the road. He would have no difficulties getting a ride. Nothing could stop him now. The situation was fluid enough. No one would ask questions.

Besides, he did have his ID. That should ward off a search he could not afford. He felt his breast pocket He froze. It was empty. Frantically he searched. His papers were gone! A chill ran through him. He knew where they were. At the bottom of a muddy pit with the crushed carcass of a rat

The 106th Evac Hospital had only recently been established in the vicinity of Regen, some fifteen miles northeast of Regensburg. But it was well marked. Tom and Sergeant Rosenfeld had no trouble finding it.

Rosenfeld had finally dug up something. He had obtained no useful information from OB, but he’d talked to IPW. From their records it appeared that one interrogation team had questioned a man, a former
KZ’ler
—a concentration camp inmate. The man had been in shock and incoherent, but he had mentioned one word that struck the interrogator as odd enough to spell out in his report

The word he had written was “cocoon.” Obviously the original word in German had been “KOKON.” The inmate had been taken to the 106th Evac Hospital. He was still there.

Rosenfeld turned off the main highway onto a dirt road where a prominent sign pointed the way to the hospital. Next to it, on the shoulder, stood a little wooden roadside shrine. The inverted V-shaped roof sheltered a carved and painted figure of the Madonna. Her arms were gently, lovingly cradled before her, her eyes gazing serenely down toward the child belonging there. But her arms were empty. The Christ Child had been blasted from them, shattered to kindling by a shell fragment.

The man in the bed at first sight did not appear to be human. A skeleton. Yes. A skeleton stretched over with pallid, almost translucent skin. He lay immobile, flat on his back. From deep in their sockets his eyes stared unblinkingly upward. Eyes that were disturbingly vacuous. Burned out His arms lay outside the covers at his side. So thin were they that each separate bone in them and in the parchmentlike hands could be plainly seen.

“I’m afraid you won’t get much out of him,” said Captain Sokol, the doctor who had take them to the patient “He hasn’t been lucid for days.”

He looked down at the man, a mixture of outraged anger and deep compassion on his grim face. “He is dying, of course,” he said quietly. “It’s a wonder he’s alive at all.” He looked at Tom. “He’s a survivor of the Flossenburg Death March,” he said.