The Hess Cross (38 page)

"Get me Enrico Fermi's office. Hurry. . . . Yes, this is John Crown. Where is Dr. Fermi? . . . He's not? When was he due back after the experiment? . . . Yeah, I'm worried too, now."

Crown quickly replaced the receiver. "They've got Fermi."

He grabbed Heather's arm and fairly dragged her out of the house. Crown yelled instructions to the other escort cars, and he and Heather jumped into the center Ford.

It screeched from the curb, shot down Kimbark, and whined around the corner onto Fifty-seventh. "There's only one way they can get out of the country in a hurry, and I played into their hands on that, too."

"Where are we going?" Heather asked, much calmer than Crown was.

"To Midway Airport. They knew we were flying back to England tonight on the same bomber, and they must have guessed that I called the bomber crew and had them prepare to depart."

"I don't understand how Professor Ludendorf could do this."

"He was obviously in on it from the beginning. I doubt he and Kohler were paid vast sums, like we thought about Kohler, but they were probably dedicated Nazis from way back."

"How did they fool us?"

"The 'us' is very kind of you," Crown replied, winding the speeding car around a pod of startled students. "Ludendorf and Kohler were sent to England and made to look like tremendously successful interrogators. The Germans fed them supposed defectors for a year or two. The defectors told Ludendorf and Kohler military secrets in order to make them look like premier interrogators. Ludendorf and Kohler knew about it all along, of course. Hell, all of that fabulous information was planted by Hitler. Sure it was accurate, and it cost the Germans many lives, but it was planted nevertheless, to make Ludendorf and Kohler look good."

"That sounds like a lot of trouble."

"Well," Crown said as the car tore through Washington Park, oblivious of the "Slow—Children" signs, "because the professor was so productive with the other defectors, it was only natural that the British give Hess to him for interrogation. And it was only natural, then, that Ludendorf and Kohler accompany Hess to the U.S. The entire ruse was to find the U. S. experiments and kidnap Fermi."

Crown ran a red light, then another, and left several drivers shaking their fists at him. Heather dared not look at the road, so she peered at Crown and said, "I still don't
understand. If Ludendorf was working with Hess, why did he tell you about the bomb at the experiment?"

"When Ludendorf found out Kohler and Smithson were dead, he knew I'd suspect him. So he simply went to his backup plan and told me of the bomb. It worked. The moment he told me about it, I no longer suspected Ludendorf at all. And after I dragged Hess to the squash court and he broke down at the last moment and ordered the bomb diffused, I didn't suspect Hess of anything more. I thought I had discovered the plan, and I relaxed accordingly. And then I reported all was well to the Priest." Crown felt like banging his head against the steering wheel. "Hell, there probably wasn't even a bomb at the squash court at all. It was just a trick to make me believe the danger was over."

"And you think von Stihl and that Willi Lange are in on it, too?"

"Sure. Now I know why they went to all the trouble to brutally hijack the dynamite truck. They wanted the whole Chicago police force after them, because they intended to be caught. And they left a bunch of clues no professional would ever leave, like stealing a truck with 'Bakery' painted on it and letting the neighbors see it. Von Stihl wanted to be captured, because he knew Everette Smithson would suggest they be locked up at the EDC house. That was part of their plan."

"Why?"

"You saw all the carnage back there. Von Stihl and Lange had to get inside the EDC house so they could help Hess break out. Ludendorf unlocked the doors, sure, but those guards wouldn't have let Hess out on Ludendorf's say."

Crown ran his sixth red light, and he would have enjoyed it if he had time. He had astutely, and somewhat miraculously, avoided hitting cars and trucks enjoying their rights-of-way.

"Von Stihl and Lange had another job, too. They were probably the muscle used to kidnap Fermi right after the experiment."

"Why didn't they kidnap him earlier? They would have had opportunities."

"They wanted to wait until Fermi's experiment was successful. It wouldn't have made sense to kidnap him and take him to Germany a week ago, because once there, he would've had to build his graphite pile all over again to prove his theory, before they could work on the bomb."

"Dr. Fermi would never help the Nazis, even if they could get him to Germany."

"Wrong. The Nazis can make anyone do anything. Look at the scientists making heavy water in Norway. They don't want to, of course, but they do anyway."

"Why?"

"Pressure. Incredible pressure. It works, believe me."

"So kidnapping Fermi was Hess's goal all along?" Heather asked, bracing herself against the door as the Ford swerved into the Midway Airport entrance drive.

"That's right. Finding the experiment, then kidnapping the top scientist. So far, they've succeeded because we underestimated them every step of the way."

They sped along the airport perimeter road toward hangar 17, past the DC-3's and Stratoliners and experimental air-force planes hidden under tarpaulins. Crown felt himself build as the adrenaline started to pump. He gripped the wheel tighter, and Heather could see him focus again, just as he had done in the cathedral four hours before. It seemed like a week ago.

"John, is the bomber crew at the airplane?"

His reply came several seconds later, forced through layers of concentration. "Yes, they've got it ready to go. On my orders."

"Well, I don't see how those two stormtroopers can take
over a plane. There must be eight or nine crew members."

"Von Stihl and Lange will handle them just as easily as Hess handled me. The crew doesn't stand a chance, not with von Stihl's brains and Lange's skill. Not a chance."

Hangar 17's black bulk, partly disguised by the night, loomed ahead of them, and Crown turned sharply off the perimeter road to the hangar driveway. The hangar's side door was partly open, and light poured through it. The Ford skidded to a stop near a fire truck parked alongside the hangar.

"If that plane is in the air, we've lost them. It's got to be in that hangar." It sounded like a prayer.

With pistol in hand, Crown ran to the side door. He peered through it without opening it farther.
Oh, God! No bomber!
He pushed open the door, and the vast, well-lit hangar stretched out before him. The huge front doors were open, through which the plane had passed, probably just a few minutes before. Crown felt small and cold and alone in the enormous structure.

He was not alone. A herd of miniature men was lined up against the back wall of the hangar, reminding Crown of a nativity scene. They weren't miniatures, they were real, but far away, the other side of the building. The men were frozen in fear. One of them, the smallest, stood apart and was pointing a submachine gun at the crowd.

Without knowing his next move, Crown walked toward the tableau. Halfway across the hangar, he recognized Wing Commander Stratton. Next to him was the surly waist gunner, but now his face contained terror identical to the others'.

Willi Lange's Schmeisser was pointed at Stratton's stomach and did not waver as Crown approached. Crown stopped twenty yards from Lange and pointed his pistol at the corporal's head, but the submachine gun did not move.

"Looks like a standoff, Lange."

Crown didn't think a Wehrmacht submachine-gun expert was capable of laughing, but there it was, crackling out into the hangar like static electricity. It ended quickly, and Crown expected a response, but got none. Lange's eyes remained riveted on the bomber crew.

"Lange, if you lay down the weapon, you might live through this."

The little German smiled under his scrubby mustache and said evenly, "Crown, I have been ordered to keep this crew here, one way or the other. The colonel did not specify how I do it. I would prefer they live, but if you fire that pistol, I promise that every one of them will die, regardless of the part of me you hit."

Crown would have risked it with anyone else but this man. Lange's trail of feats testified to his deadly ability.

Crown asked, "You creased von Stihl's head with a bullet, Lange?"

The corporal smiled again and said, "Just enough to make it look bad. The colonel wasn't even nervous when I did it."

No, Crown wouldn't take the chance. But he kept Willi Lange's ear in the pistol's sight. Lange didn't bother to look. Supreme confidence. Was there something standard to do in this situation? What would the Priest have done in his younger days? Hell, what would he do now? Do something, asshole.

The deep bass of
Iron Mike's
engines settled it. The sound bubbled into the hangar and shook its flimsy walls. Lange's weapon did not move from the group as Crown backed up several yards, then turned and ran to the gaping double doors. The Flying Fortress was taxiing past the row of hangars out to the end of the runway. It trudged forward ponderously, with power and purpose. At the tip of the runway, it slowed and yawed starboard to line up for takeoff. For several seconds,
Iron Mike
sat heavily on the runway, its
tail almost touching the concrete and its nose high in the air, looking like an enormous metal frog about to leap into the sky. The plane's running lights were off, and no light emerged through the cockpit windows or the greenhouse. A giant, blind monster. It began to roll forward slowly, deliberately.

True inspiration comes only during times of stress. As Crown stood helplessly watching Nazi Germany's deputy führer about to pilot a stolen plane into the sky with America's top nuclear scientist his captive on board, a moment of absolute stress, the solution came to him. It was fraught with risk and danger, but then, it seemed to Crown that stopping a Flying Fortress would be inherently dangerous, regardless of how it was done.
Iron Mike's
four engines growled to a higher pitch as the plane lumbered down the runway toward Crown, picking up speed as the giant props blew back a violent stream of air over the wings.

Crown turned on his heels and sprinted to the side of hangar 17, climbed to the running board of the fire truck, and squinted into the darkness of the cab at the dashboard. The key was in the ignition. Of course it was. It was a fire truck that had to be ready on a moment's notice. Crown jumped into the cab, turned the key, and flattened his heel against the starter button. The truck's engine turned over immediately, and Crown rammed it into first gear.

The big Dodge had surprising acceleration for a fully outfitted pumper. And that's what Crown needed, because he saw
Iron Mike
rolling down the runway toward him just a hundred yards or so from hangar 17. God, it looked immense, a man-of-war about to muscle itself into the sky. Crown heavy-handed the truck through the gears, and it passed the docking trucks parked on the gravel edge and shot onto the runway.

The Fortress accelerated, gobbling up the runway. Its tail lifted off the ground as it bore down.
Iron Mike
saw the
pumper at that instant. It veered to the far side of the concrete strip as it came. One tire bounced along the gravel on the side of the runway, but the plane did not slow. The four engines boomed with sound as it tried to beat the oncoming truck.

Crown aimed the pumper as if he were leading a clay pigeon at a trapshoot. The closer
Iron Mike
got, the faster it came, and the last fifty yards to the truck were covered in only seconds. A collision was unavoidable and an instant away.

Crown dived to the truck's floor just as
Iron Mike's
far starboard propeller sheared into the cab, through the seat, and into the pumping engine on the bed. A second propeller followed immediately and tore the roof off the Dodge. The sound of tearing metal rocked the cab. The propellers exploded into fragments as they churned through the truck. Bits of razor-sharp metal streaked through the cab as if a grenade had blown.

Iron Mike
, suddenly without starboard power, pivoted violently 180 degrees, tottered up on one wheel as the port wing scraped along the ground, and came to a dead stop, pointing up the runway the way it had come. It bounced back down to two wheels and lay emasculated and immobilized. The two starboard propellers had been sheared off.

The fire truck had been almost cut in half, and parts of it covered the runway for a radius of forty yards. It no longer even resembled the proud pumper it once was, but was a twisted and torn, grotesque heap of scrap metal. All its windows had been shattered. Pieces of rubber fire hose stuck from the tangle of metal like worms escaping from a tin can.

As if sighing in despair,
Iron Mike's
engines fluttered to a stop. Cold silence blew across the runway.

Iron Mike's
belly hatch twisted open, and Erich von Stihl dropped softly to the runway. His Schmeisser scanned the
ugly scene as he took several steps toward the remnants of the pumper. He planted his feet, gripped the weapon tightly, and fired an entire clip through the wrenched door of the cab. The Schmeisser's thunder echoed back from the hangars and rolled over the bomber. Nothing could be alive in the cab. He was about to insert another clip when John Crown stepped from behind one of
Iron Mike's
wheels in back of von Stihl.

Crown raised his revolver, paused involuntarily, perhaps to salute the legend, then ripped out von Stihl's knee. The German's weapon pitched away from him, and he spun to the ground. He lay on the concrete, blood pouring from the gaping hole in his kneecap.

The shot had not killed him. It wasn't meant to. Von Stihl fought to a sitting position and looked, not at his knee, for he knew its condition, but at the Schmeisser four yards away from him on the concrete.

He turned to Crown, coughed in pain, and very calmly, very remotely, said, "I would imagine you hang enemy soldiers found in civilian clothes behind enemy lines, just like we do."