Sleeper Agent (11 page)

“He probably couldn’t,” Rosenfeld ventured.

“Couldn’t?” Tom looked at him.

“When I saw him on the street, sir,” Rosenfeld explained, “he was looking for a match to light one of his butts.” He grinned. “He was fresh out!”

Tom nodded. He knew it. The guy is okay. Knows how to observe. How to put two and two together.

“For the want of a match . . . Eh, what, Richard?”

Rosenfeld looked puzzled. What the hell was that supposed to mean?

Tom read the document once more. At the bottom of it was a referral indicator: “
Betr: KOKON.”
He stared at the letters: K-O-K-O-N.

What the hell did that mean? Had to be initials. Like NSDAP. Or CIC, for that matter. The letters meant nothing to him. He’d never run across them before—in that context. He had no idea what they could stand for.

Of course, they did form a word. A German word:
Kokon.
The word for “cocoon.” It meant nothing.

C-O-C-O-O-N . . .

It was well past midnight, but Obersturmführer Rudolf Kessler could not sleep.

Even deep in the bowels of the earth the crashing thunder of the Russian artillery barrages sporadically pounding the city above could not be escaped. But that was not what kept Rudi awake.

It was KOKON.

He had glimpsed the word written on his
Personalbogen,
when Reichsleiter Bormann had been studying it. He had read it upside down, as he had been trained to do. It had been automatic. He had wondered what it meant. Now he knew!

His mind was seething with the fantastic implications of the plans, the bold ingenuity of the momentous project he’d been made privy to.

His briefing was progressing slowly in the hectic atmosphere of the Führerbunker. Bormann was constantly in demand, and the Reichsleiter insisted on briefing Rudi personally. No detail could be wrong. No possibility overlooked.

There was a constant coming and going of some of the most important personalities in the Third Reich. Armament Minister Albert Speer had arrived—and left early that morning, looking grim and drawn. Top Wehrmacht and SS officers had departed to conduct relief operations from outside the beleaguered city.

Rudi did not much care for life in the bunker. There was an inescapable air of tension and strain. But not the stimulating tension born of excitement and challenge. It made him feel uneasy. The only person who had time to be pleasant and cheerful was Fräulein Eva Braun. He liked her.

He had also actually seen the Führer himself. Adolf Hitler. But he didn’t like to think about it. He had been deeply shocked. The Führer had looked old. Gray and weakened. His eyes burning with a deep inner agony. He seemed a broken man. Rudi had been profoundly moved. His Führer. Slowly giving his very life for his people. Against overwhelming odds.

Even some of his closest comrades apparently had betrayed him.

Rudi had overheard a conversation between Bormann’s aide, Standartenführer Zander, and the secretary, Fräulein Krueger, that Reichsmarschall Göring was a traitor to his Führer and his country.

Bormann himself had spent much feverish time in trying to combat Göring’s treachery, and he’d heard Zander telling Fräulein Krueger, when he emerged from a long meeting between Hitler and Bormann, that Göring was finished. Bormann “got him!” he’d said.

Rudi had been gratified. Traitors to the Führer and the Reich should be destroyed. Ruthlessly. No matter who they were.

He was lying on his bunk. Occasionally the bunker lights flickered, and he found himself listening for the steady hum of the power diesel engine among the many noises and sounds of the shelter.

It was obvious to him that it was only a matter of time—and not much time—before the Third Reich no longer could defend herself against the combined might of the rest of the world that had ganged up on her. It made
his
mission that much more vital, and he was anxious to complete his briefing and be on his way.

KOKON . . .

The more he thought of the nature of his mission, the more apt he found its code name.
Kokon
—the cocoon. That masterpiece of mimicry. The primordial, the simplest, the most effective and successful of all methods of protection. The source of a great, a wondrous change. The implications of the code name were mind-staggering. Martin Bormann himself had coined it. It was perfect

3

“Dammit! Nobody’s ever heard of that KOKON crap of yours, Tom. Drop it. Get back to work.”

Major Lee sounded annoyed. He was. Corps CP had moved from Grofenwöhr to Schwarzenfeld at 0800 hours. They were supposed to be open for business at 1100. The CP had taken over a barrackslike housing development on the edge of town. Square, squat buildings, rows of wood-shuttered windows and gabled dormers set into peaked roofs. Major Lee found the quarters assigned to him completely inadequate. He always did. He found moving a colossal pain in the ass, and this time Corps had been in Grofenwöhr only two days—hardly enough time to get settled in for some serious work—when they were off again to the new quarters at Schwarzenfeld. The war was moving too damned fast

Throughout the housing complex reigned that organized confusion that made it possible for the entire Corps HQ to move thirty miles from one town to another and become fully operational in less than three hours.

The room to be occupied by CIC looked a cluttered mess. Major Lee was standing in the middle of the disarray directing a minor army of GIs bringing boxes, crates, files and equipment to place in the cramped space where Lee prescribed.

Tom knew from past observation that order would miraculously uncoil from the chaos. Lee had a phenomenal memory of what was contained in his voluminous files and had definite ideas where everything was to be placed. It always turned out to be the most efficient solution. Tom was used to his CO’s short-tempered irritation when in the process of exercising his gift

“So nobody has run across KOKON before,” he said. “I find that even more intriguing, Herb. Something new.”

“Hell, Tom. Don’t waste any more time on it. It’s probably nothing but some local letter designation.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

He watched Lee check a file drawer and order the GI’s to get it the hell out of his office and dump it on the IPW’s where it belonged. Were they color blind, for Christ’s sake? Couldn’t they see the tags were wrong? Dammit, get on the ball!

He grabbed a large map tube from another soldier. “Give me that!” he barked. He plunked it down on his desk. The tube had a broad red stripe painted around it. It was known as “Herbie’s Drawers.”

Tom knew all about it. Contrary to popular belief, the tube did not contain a Confederate flag but a Nazi flag. It had been the personal standard of a German general—the first general captured and interrogated at Corps, an interrogation conducted by Lee himself. The flag had been in the general’s staff car, and Lee had claimed it as his personal loot.

It was about two by three with twin points and a thick silver-cord fringe all around. On the red silk a huge iron cross had been embroidered in black and real silver thread, with a grim Teutonic eagle in the center holding a swastika. The workmanship was fantastic—equally impeccable on both sides of the flag. A black and silver swastika adorned each corner, and the heavy silver thread and brocade gave a hefty body to the whole damned thing. It was magnificent.

Lee carted it along in the specially marked map tube wherever Corps moved and tacked it up on the wall—in the John.

Tom persisted. “What about Prague?” he asked.

“Not a damned thing about Prague. Get out of here, will you? Go catch a spy or something!”

Tom ignored him. “It’s the only lead I have, Herb. The fact that Steinmetz and his family were stationed in Prague prior to his KOKON assignment.”

The major appeared not to be listening. He sent a GI scurrying for a more comfortable desk chair—“. . . even if you have to liberate it from the AC of S!” he shouted after the man.

“You did ask the IPW’s and the MP’s to let you know if they got anybody fresh from Prague?” Tom persisted. “Herb? You did, didn’t you?”

“Yes, yes, yes, dammit!” He bellowed at a couple of men appearing in the doorway lugging a field desk, “Blue tags, you idiots!
Blue
tags in here. Open your damned eyes!”

The men hastily disappeared. Lee turned to Tom. “I’ve got to be operational in twelve minutes,” he said with exasperation. “The Twenty-sixth has just reached Straubing. Biggest town we’ve taken in some time. Crammed with regional Nazi offices. There’s stiffened SS resistance and the damned Danube bridge is blown. It’s a whole new ball game. I need your damned KOKON like I need a fifteen-yard penalty!”

A GI came up to him. “Phones are in, sir. And operating.”

“Okay.”

“Well?” Tom asked.

Lee stopped short. He glared at Tom, his face grim. “Nothing,” he said. “Drop it!”

“I’m staying on the case, Herb.” Tom sounded determined.

“
What
case?” Lee’s voice was a minor roar. “There
is
no fucking case! Get it through your thick skull, Tom.
You got no case!
Forget that KOKON shit!”

The field telephone rang shrilly.

Lee grabbed it “CIC. Major Lee,” he barked angrily into the mouthpiece. He listened for a brief moment.

“No, dammit!” he exploded. “I don’t want your fucking PW! Give him to the IPW’s. Or thrown him back! I don’t give— What?”

He listened. He frowned. He scribbled a note on a scrap of paper. “Hold him!” he snapped. He banged the receiver down.

He looked sideways at Tom. “You are the luckiest SOB I know,” he said sourly. “Where’s your team located now? Grafenau, isn’t it?”

Tom nodded. “Right.”

Major Lee handed him the scrap of paper. “Switch of signals. The MP’s are holding a PW. They claim he’s fresh from Prague.”

Tom snatched the paper. “Thanks, Herb.” He turned to leave.

Lee stopped him. He was suddenly serious. And quiet. “Look, Tom,” he said soberly. “I mean it. I hope you don’t get dumped for a loss. I hope it pans out But if it doesn’t, I want you to drop that KOKON thing. Understood?”

Tom nodded. “Understood, Herb.” He grinned. “You know,” he observed, “I’ve got another hunch! I think it
will
pan out!” He hurried from the room.

Grafenau was nestled cozily in a shallow valley at the foot of Frauenberg in the Bayrischer Wald—the Bavarian Forest. The cupola-topped churchtower and the step-parapeted tower of the
Rathaus
—the town hall—on Oberer Stadtplatz vied for dominance over the skyline of the idyllic little postcard town. Grafenau had been taken only the day before after token resistance and scattered
Panzerfaus
fire.

Tom’s CIC team had taken over a farmhouse on the outskirts of town, a rough-walled two-story building with a wooden balcony running the length of the house on the outside. A huge pile of unevenly cut logs was stacked directly in front of the main door, providing easy access to the firewood—as well as good protection from stray bullets.

The MP’s had set up shop in a house on the steep main street of the town itself, close to the centrally located
Rathaus.

When Tom arrived at the house that served as MP Headquarters it was already past 1400 hours. He was at once directed to the room used as an office by the Detachment CO, Captain Frank Williams. The captain himself was examining the PW, he was told.

Tom was about to knock on the door—when he froze. From the room beyond came the sound of a series of muffled thuds. A voice, unmistakably American, could be heard: “Talk, you fucking Kraut!
Talk! Talk! Talk!”
Each “talk” was accompanied by a dull thud.

He flung the door open. The sight before him etched itself indelibly on his mind in a split instant. In the room a young MP captain. In his right hand he had a Nazi dagger. A
Reichsarbeitsdienst
—Reich Labor Service—dagger. Holding it by its bone-handled eagle-head grip, he used its sharp point to prod at a large barely healed wound high on the right shoulder blade of a man standing before him. Stripped to the waist, his hands bound behind him, the man stood facing the wall, toes touching the floorboard. The blood from his opened wound ran steadily in small tortuous rivulets down his sweat-soaked back. His spasmodic breath was an unbroken chain of low moans.

Over and over again the MP officer snarled at the prisoner: “Talk! Talk! Talk!” And with each word, using his free left hand, he rammed the man’s forehead into the wall. Hard.

Tom felt cold rage well up in him. He did nothing to repress it. In two strides he was in back of the MP officer. Roughly he grabbed him by the shoulder and whirled him around. With the hard edge of his hand he dealt a numbing blow across the man’s forearm. The ornate dagger clattered to the floor. Savagely he kicked it aside. He seized the officer’s jacket with both hands and hurled him with all his might across the room.

The officer rammed backwards into a chair, tumbled over it and slammed against the wall with bone-rattling force. For a moment he slumped there, dazed, staring at the hard-breathing Tom towering over him.

“You fucking bastard!” Tom said in hoarsely whispered fury.

Slowly the MP officer climbed to his feet. “What the hell’s the matter with you?” he asked shakily. “You crazy or something?”

Tom stood silent, trying to calm himself. Williams stared at him. His eyes narrowed unpleasantly. “You’re in trouble, soldier,” he threatened darkly. “One fucking heap of trouble. Striking an officer!” He glared at Tom, hatefully. “I’ll see they throw the damned book away at your courtmartial!”

“Be my guest”

“You bet your sweet ass!” Williams glanced at the PW at the wall. He had a quick surge of black hatred for the enemy soldier—witness to his humiliation. He pushed it aside. For now. He studied Tom. He was rapidly getting hold of himself. “What the hell are you trying to prove?” he demanded.

“What the hell are
you
doing? Torturing a PW!” Tom countered, his voice savage. He turned toward the prisoner at the wall. His eyes widened in revulsion and shock.

The PW had turned around. He was leaning weakly against the wall. His forehead was a mass of bleeding holes where a nail, placed in the wall at the exactly calculated height, had jabbed into his brow every time Williams slammed his head against the wall. His deathly pale face was streaked with runnels of blood oozing from the wounds. His hands tied behind him, he was trying to blink the blood from his eyes. One spot on his forehead was so gutted with holes that a flap of skin had torn loose and hung limply down over one eye.

The man looked straight at Tom. His face was a mask of pure pain. The red-streaked mask of a clown made up in hell.

“You—fucking—bastard!” Tom’s voice broke. He stared at Williams, his eyes not believing what they had seen.

“
Why?
” Williams strode to the table. He snatched up a
Soldbuch
lying on it. He thrust it at Tom. “Look, you dumb asshole!” He stabbed a finger at a word in the booklet. “
Totenkopf!
Read it! Right there.
Totenkopf!
That damned well means death’s-head!”

He banged the
Soldbuch
down on the table. “And you and me both know what those
Totenkopf
bastards are. Concentration camp guards, that’s what! Murdering, sadistic swine every one of them!” He nodded malevolently toward the trembling PW. “Don’t go bleeding your fucking heart for
that
Kraut shithead. This is a picnic to what
he’s
used to dishing out!”

Grim-faced, Tom picked up the
Soldbuch.
He glanced at it He gave the MP officer a withering look. “When the hell did
you
get over here, you miserable son of a bitch? Yesterday?” His voice was dangerously low. “Didn’t you
read
this? The man belongs to the First SS Totenkopf Infantry Regiment, SS Panzer Grenadier Division Totenkopf!”

“That’s what I damned well said.
Totenkopf!
You think you Intelligence prima donnas are so damned smart. It doesn’t take a lot of brains to figure out what kind of prick this Kraut is. He’s got it coming. In spades!”

“Brains!” Tom glared at the MP officer. “You’ve got crap where your brains ought to be!”

His face mirrored the virulent contempt and fury that raged in him. “This man is an
Infantry man,
dammit! He belongs to a Waffen SS Division
named Totenkopf!
He’s a Pole. A damned lot of conscripted foreign-born troops were put in the Waffen SS by the Nazis. This man does
not
belong to the SS
Totenkopf VERBAND,
you blasted idiot. He’s a soldier,
not
a concentration camp guard!”

Williams glared back at Tom. “He’s a fucking Kraut prick!” he said.

“You have no right—”

“This is
my
office, dammit!” Williams interrupted him. “
My office!
You hear? Here the customer is always wrong. And
I
do what I goddamned well please!”

“You’re no better than the worst of them.” Tom’s abysmal contempt was explicit.

Williams reddened. “Listen you—” He glared at the two US officer’s emblems on Tom’s collar tabs. “What the hell
is
your rank?”

“My rank is none of your goddamned business,
Captain?
” Tom growled in cold fury. “You know damned well it’s confidential. But I got news for you,
Captain.
” He made the word sound like a curse. “I’m sure as hell not outranked
now!
”

Williams glared at him with murderous hate. Tom stood his ground.

“Get out of here,
Captain!
He felt himself tremble with anger and disgust. “Get out, and leave me alone with this man.” He took a step toward the MP officer. “And I hope to God you do prefer charges! I’d like nothing better than to see this whole stinking, rotten affair come out in a general court-martial!”

His face a pinched mask of barely contained fury, Williams turned on his heel. Tom glanced at the blood-tipped
Reichsarbeitsdienst
dagger lying on the floor. The inscription on its gleaming blade flashed into his mind: “
Arbeit Adelt—
Work Makes Noble.”

Not always, he thought bitterly. Not always. . . . He nodded toward the dagger. “And take your filthy plaything with you,” he said contemptuously.