Sleeper Agent (10 page)

Sergeant Rosenfeld watched him tensely. He picked up the walkie-talkie. He’d better report the old man. His finger was on the button. He would speak in a low voice. He hesitated. So . . . what was to report?

An old Kraut scavenger taking a break? So . . . the CIC agent would come running over to take a look. Commotion. Just as the real suspect turned up! Great! He’d really have fucked things up then.

Okay. He’d wait. See what the old man was up to. Likely as not he’d be on his way soon. He put down the walkie-talkie.

But the agent had said
anything
out of the ordinary. Maybe he
should
report the old man. He could always say he didn’t think he was of any importance. Leave it up to the CIC agent. He tensed.

Across the street the German raised his head and peered narrow-eyed at the sun beating down on him. He slowly moved into the shade, of the doorway—all but lost in the shadows.

Okay, Buster, Rosenfeld thought, that does it. He was about to pick up the walkie-talkie again when he saw the other man. He was coming down the street. He wore boots. Military boots. He had on some sort of uniform, stripped of all insignia. A gray peaked cap. On his right sleeve was an armband. It read,
POSTAMT BAYREUTH
.

The man carried a clipboard. He looked—and acted—“official.” At each house he’d stop and make a notation. He was only three houses from Ludwigsstrasse 17. He fit the description of SS Colonel Wolfgang Steinmetz. No doubt about it

Rosenfeld hardly dared breathe. It could be him! He didn’t take his eyes off the man. One house away. Rosenfeld picked up the walkie-talkie. His hands were sweaty. This was it.

The man stopped at the side entrance of the target house. He paid no attention to the resting forager in the doorway. He made a note on his clipboard and quickly strode down the street to Ludwigsstrasse, disappearing around the corner.

Rosenfeld was so disappointed he could taste it. Shit! he thought in disgust He’d been so sure . . . He looked over toward the side entrance. The old baby carriage still hugged the wall; the man could just be ,made out sleeping in the shade of the doorway.

Should he report him? No. Hell, what kind of sergeant would he be if he couldn’t handle a crippled old scavenger without hollering for help? He’d wait . . . and watch. . . .

It was 1231 hours when Sergeant Rosenfeld’s walkie-talkie sputterd to life. Thirty-one minutes past H-hour.

It was CIC agent Jaeger. “Sergeant? Anything on your side?”

“No, sir. Nothing.”

“We’ll give it another thirty minutes.”

“Okay, sir.”

“Keep your eyes open. He could still show up.”

“Right.”

“Jaeger, out.”

“Rosenfeld, out”

Half an hour later Sergeant Rosenfeld saw the CIC agent with two of his MP’s come around the corner and walk toward him.

Well, that’s that, he thought. Nothing but a wild-goose chase. He felt let down. Some big assignment! He stretched. He picked up his walkie-talkie and ducked out of his hiding place. He met Agent Jaeger just outside the basement entrance.

The officer glanced at him. “Nothing?”

“Nothing. Not a damned thing, sir.” He gave a crooked grin. “Unless we’re looking for a baby buggy and an old rag picker!”

“
What
rag picker?” Tom was at once alert.

Rosenfeld was startled at the instant change in the CIC officer. He had a quick pang of apprehension. He should have reported that fucking old fart! He should have . . . He grew sober. “Just an old bum, sir. Scavenging around. With an old baby buggy.” He nodded across the street. “That one. Over there.”

Tom looked quickly. “Where’s the man?” he snapped.

“Asleep, sir. He’s . . . sitting just inside the doorway.” He strained to see into the shadows. The man was still there. Wasn’t he?

Tom stared at the darkened doorway. He thought he could see a figure slumped against the wall. He felt the familiar chill of tenseness shudder down his back. He turned to Rosenfeld. His voice was low, intense. “How long has he been there?”

Rosenfeld was clammy with misgivings. God damn it all to hell, he cursed to himself, he’d gone and fucked up his first assignment. But good. He said quickly, “A couple of hours, sir.” He thought fast “I didn’t want to roust him. It would’ve given the show away.”

Tom looked at the frightened young soldier. No use chewing his ass now, he thought.

“Get to your men, Sergeant. Tell them to move in.
Now!
” He turned to the two MP’s. “You two. Come with me!”

Rosenfeld took off down the street. Tom and the MP’s ran to the doorway of Ludwigsstrasse 17.

Tom knew what he’d find before he was halfway across the street. What had appeared to be the figure of the old scavenger sitting hunched against the wall in the shadows was only a couple of scorched pieces of lumber, lent credence by the presence of the old baby carriage just outside.

The scavenger was gone.

They found him on the second floor of the building. In a room facing the rear courtyard. He was asleep.

When Tom, closely followed by the two MP’s, burst into the room, his gun tightly locked against his abdomen and aimed at anything he would face, the startled man sat up in alarm and cowered against the cracked wall.

“Up!” Tom snapped. “On your feet!”

The man scrambled to obey. He looked bewildered and frightened.

“Hands on top of your head. Move!”

The man quickly clasped his hands on top of the old wool cap he wore. He stared at Tom.

“Search him,” Tom ordered the MP’s. “I’ll cover you.”

The soldiers began to shake down the dazed man. He stood stock still.

Sergeant Rosenfeld came into the room. He took in the scene in an instant. He felt enormously relieved. The old pisser had not got away! He quickly grew sober. It was no thanks to him. He turned to Tom. “I got a couple of men on each exit, sir.”

Tom didn’t take his eyes from the captive. “Very good, Sergeant,” he said.

The soldiers had finished their search. One of them came over to Tom. “He’s clean, sir.” He handed the agent a small thin booklet. “Here are his papers.”

Tom took the booklet. It was a
Soldbuch
—a Wehrmacht soldier’s identification and paybook. He glanced at it. The man was supposed to be one Hans Moser, ex-Feldwebel in the Wehrmacht

He had expected nothing else. A name means nothing. Papers can be forged. But not so easily a physical description: six feet one inch. Blond. Blue-eyed. A hundred and eighty pounds. Thirty-nine years old. It was the exact description of the prisoner. And of SS Colonel Wolfgang Steinmetz.

Tom stepped closer to the man. He watched him intently. “You are under arrest,” he said firmly, “
Colonel Steinmetz!
”

There was absolutely no reaction from the captive except a bewildered stare. “I . . . I do not understand.” The man looked confused, apprehensive. Was it apprehension caused by a situation he did not comprehend? Or the fear of discovery?

“You
are
SS Standartenführer Wolfgang Steinmetz, are you not?” Tom sounded exasperated. Impatient. “We
know
you are!”

The man shook his head. “Feldwebel Moser, Hans. One, four, oh, two . . .” he began intoning automatically. The hands clasped on his head shook slightly.

Tom watched him with a frown. He thought fast. He was convinced the man was lying. He was certain he was not what he pretended to be. A real scavenger would not have left the baby carriage with all his treasures in it unattended outside. And he had fielded his attempt to shock him into revealing himself beautifully. The man was good. Damned good. If he couldn’t be broken fast—
now,
when he had been caught off guard—he’d
never
break. He had to play rough.

What was it Lee used to say? Never hit a man when he’s down. Kick him. He took a deep breath. “It’s no use. Colonel Steinmetz,” he said with deceptive calm. “We
know
who you are. We know why you are here.” He looked directly into the man’s pale blue eyes. “I have a message for you. Written by your wife. . . . Before she died!”

The German’s eyes briefly widened. The muscles in his jaws momentarily corded. That was all. It was enough.

Tom had known what he would see. That unmistakable “look” of perfect control abruptly jolted—and just as quickly regained.

For a moment the two men stood facing each other, eyes locked. Then the German slowly turned and walked to the window. In silence he stood staring into space.

Maria . . . It was over. So soon. He had given himself away. Like a novice he had given himself away. He knew the reaction he had been unable to check had not gone unnoticed by the American officer.

He had taken a calculated risk. And lost. Everything. When he became aware that the building was surrounded and he was being watched, he’d tried to brazen out his disguise. A decrepit old scavenger, sleeping off his fatigue in an empty house. Why not? There were countless thousands of them. But the odds had been stacked against him. He, too, was dead.

Without turning around, he finally asked, “My . . . son?” His voice was dark and low.

“With your sister. He’s all right.”

The German turned to face Tom. He was once again in control of himself. But something had burned out in his eyes. His gray face was slack. “My wife,” he asked softly. “How did she die?”

Tom had a quick mental glimpse of the misshapen corpse obscenely dangling from the cell window bars.

“She . . . killed herself, Colonel. Rather than talk.” He stopped. What was the use of telling the man the whole truth? What use were the gory details now?

Steinmetz seemed to stand a little straighter A good woman, his wife. “You said a message?”

Tom nodded.

She had been right. She had known her husband would get her message. But she had not known that it would be delivered by him, her hated enemy.

“She asked you to . . . carry on,” he said quietly.

Steinmetz looked away. “What will happen to me now?” It was a question of simple curiosity.

“You will be taken to Army Interrogation Center, Colonel, where they’ll question you. We know you are on a special mission. They’ll find out exactly
what
back there.”

Steinmetz smiled, thin-lipped with his mouth only. “I doubt it.” He searched in vain for an insignia of rank on Tom’s uniform. There was none. Only two officer’s “US” emblems were visible on the American’s collar. Curious. But the man was obviously an officer.

“I doubt that, Herr Offizier,” he said, his voice oddly lifeless and flat. “I am only a very small cog in a very great machine. A great undertaking. Greater than you can ever imagine. An undertaking you will never know. That you cannot stop!”

An alarm suddenly shrieked in Tom’s mind. He leaped at the German. “Grab him!” he shouted. “
Grab his jaw!
”

But he was too late.

Steinmetz bit down hard. In his mouth the false tooth containing the cyanide was crushed. For a split moment his eyes seemed to bulge from their restraining sockets, staring with desperate triumph at Tom. His face contorted in agony; his whole body was wracked by a violent convulsion, and he fell heavily to the floor. A savage spasm shot through him. His legs jerked once. Once again. He was dead. And with him the secret of his mission.

Tom stared at the body sprawled at his feet. He should have known. God damn it! He should have known!

He turned to Sergeant Rosenfeld. The young soldier looked stricken. You and me, buddy, Tom thought bitterly. We both fucked up. But at least your fuck-up was corrected. Mine can never be. . . . “Have Graves Registration pick him up,” he said curtly.

“Yes, sir.”

Without looking back, Tom started to walk from the room. Rosenfeld hesitated. Should he speak up? Or should he let well enough alone and keep his big damned mouth shut?

“Sir!” he said.

Tom turned to him. “What is it?”

Rosenfeld bent over a stack of debris lying in a corner of the room. He pulled an old burlap bag from under a pile of broken plaster. He held it out toward Tom. “This bag, sir.” He swallowed. “The . . . the colonel, that is . . . the rag picker had one just like it In the street He doesn’t now. Maybe . . . maybe this is it?”

Tom was at his side in two strides. He took the bag from him. He spilled the contents out onto the floor. Quickly he glanced at the odds and ends of junk. Nothing. He picked up a small tin box. He opened it. It contained half a dozen dirty cigarette butts. But under them was a piece of paper. Folded. He dumped the butts and pried the paper out. He unfolded it. He stared at it.

There was the official embossed Nazi emblem—the eagle, wings spread wide, holding the oak-leaf wreath with the swastika in its claws.

“
Führerhauptquartier,
” the date line read—“Führer Headquarters—
-den
7. April 1945.” And printed underneath: “
Geheime Kommandosache
—Top Secret.”

Two prominent black stamps had been affixed:

GEHEIM

[Secret]

CHEF-SACHE!

NUR DURCH OFFIZIER!

[Command Order!

Officer Courier Only!]

Tom read on:

Der Reichsleiter hat nachfolgenden Befehl an den Standartenführer Steinmetz, Wolfgang, gegeben . . .

The Reichsleiter has given SS Colonel Steinmetz, Wolfgang, the following order:

1. Col. Steinmetz is hereby relieved of all further Gestapo and/or SS duties. The Colonel will from above date be responsible to the below signed only.

Heil Hitler!

Bormann

Tom reread the document. He felt a hell of a lot better. At least they didn’t come away completely empty handed. Something big
was
up!

He glanced at the young sergeant. Not a total loss after all, he thought. He does have powers of observation. And he can use them. Good man—once he gets a little experience under his ammo belt. He felt quite benevolent toward the young noncom. It was easier to overlook his earlier fuck-up now that things were looking up.

He examined the document in his hand once more. “Why the hell didn’t he burn the damned thing?” he thought aloud.