Sleeper Agent (12 page)

Williams stopped. “Shove it!” He spat out the expletive vehemently. He gave the dagger on the floor a violent kick. It flew across the floor to bury its point in the floorboard with a sharp thud. Williams stalked to the door. He slammed it as hard as he could behind him.

Tom untied the prisoner’s hands. He gave him his handkerchief to stem the flow of blood from his forehead. The man seemed in a daze. Tom knew it would be impossible to interrogate him on the spot He was in no condition to respond coherently. Later.

But he had to verify that the man actually did come from the Prague area. He had to know. Once more he glanced at the prisoner’s
Soldbuch.
There was no indication of his last station. He turned to the shaken man. “Your name is Michal Swiderski?” he asked. His voice was calm and kind.

The man started to nod. He grimaced with pain. He spoke. “
Jo.
” His voice was weak with agony.

“You are Polish?”

“
Ja
.”

“You served in the Waffen SS. As a corporal. Correct?”

“
Ja.
”

“Where was your last assignment?”

“Prague.”

“What were your duties?”

The prisoner licked his gray lips. “Guard . . . duty,” he whispered.

“Guarding what?”

“Headquarters.” The man swayed on his feet

Tom grabbed his arm. “Sit down,” he said. He righted the chair overturned by Williams. The prisoner sank into it

Tom gave him time. He looked at him intently. “Headquarters?” he prompted.

“
Ja
” the prisoner murmured. His face behind the scarlet streaks of blood was gray. He was going into shock. Tom held his breath, tensely waiting for the prisoner to continue.

“We were . . . guarding . . . Headquarters . . . of the Luftwaffe High Command. In . . . Prague.” The man closed his eyes. He looked on the verge of passing out

Tom expelled his pent-up breath in a rush. It tasted sour. A reminder of MP Captain Williams, he thought caustically. He felt a rising excitement. The PW might—just might—be the link he was searching for. KOKON
could
be connected with the German Air Force High Command.

He looked at the prisoner. The man needed attention. Badly. Just one more question. “What happened to the Luftwaffe staff officers?” he asked.

“They . . . fled Prague. . . . We . . . we were told . . . to get to the
Ami
lines . . . and surrender.”

Tom’s mind raced. He knew of no high ranking Luftwaffe officers captured in the sector. Where were they? Still in the area? Why? What connection—if any—did they have with KOKON? A host of questions urgently presented themselves.

But the PW was beyond giving any further information. Until later.

Tom took the man by the arm. He helped him to his feet. “Come on,” he said quietly. “You need to be looked after. I’ll see to it.”

For a brief moment the two men’s eyes met Then the prisoner lowered his head. His eyes had been filled with fear.

Captain Williams was waiting outside the door with an MP corporal when Tom emerged with the trembling PW. “This man needs medical care,” he snapped curtly. “And he needs it now!”

He turned to the PW over to the corporal and faced Williams. “I want him taken to the aid station. I’ll follow.” Without waiting for acknowledgment he turned on his heel and walked away.

Tom was following the MP jeep as it sped down the country road. The jeep ahead of him was driven by the MP corporal. The PW was slumped in the seat next to him. Captain Williams sat uncomfortably rigid in the back seat, a Tommy gun across his knees, guarding the prisoner.

Tom was impatient. Angry. That SOB Williams had screwed up everything. If it hadn’t been for his degenerate conduct with the PW, the man would already be giving Tom all the information he so avidly wanted. He had a gut feeling that he was onto something. Something important. And the PW in the speeding jeep ahead was the key.

The lead jeep suddenly slowed down for a half-filled shell crater on the road. Tom put his foot on the brake. Suddenly he saw the PW lurch from the slowing jeep. He fell to the ground and rolled head over heels in an unchecked heap, arms and legs flailing. Miraculously he got to his feet. At once he began to run. Run from the road. From the jeep. From the MP’s. Run into a newly plowed field. Stumbling across the deep, fresh furrows . . .

And he saw Williams stand up in his jeep, now stopped dead. He saw him raise his Tommy gun.

His anguished cry of protest was drowned by the staccato thunder of a prolonged burst of fire from the submachine gun.

In the field the PW fell—dead before his tortured body hit the soft dark earth.

Tom brought his jeep to a screeching halt up against the MP vehicle. He leaped from his seat and ran to Williams. His heart raced with rage, and frustration, and bleak impotence. He stopped—barely keeping himself from tearing the MP officer from his deadly perch and beating him, beating him, beating him with his bare fists.

Williams wore a smirk of self-satisfaction on his lips. He turned to Tom. “I suppose
now
you’ll tell me it is not my duty to shoot an escaping prisoner!” He gave a short unpleasant laugh. “Try it” He looked out toward the still body among the plow furrows. “So much for that Kraut bastard,” he observed with cold finality. He turned to the corporal. “Go pick him up,” he ordered. “We’ll take him back to GR.”

Slowly, without a word, Tom turned away and walked to his jeep. It was over. He dismissed Williams from his thoughts. The man was not worth the bother. He had done all the damage he could. Tom was certain the officer had not killed the prisoner because of his ineffectual escape attempt. He could so easily have been recaptured. No. That was not the reason. But the man had witnessed his tormentor’s humiliation. His disgrace. He could not be allowed to live. That was the reason.

Whatever it was, the result was inescapable. His only possible link to KOKON was a dead one.

How ironic, he thought bleakly. When for once his bad-guy/good-guy routine was on the level, it had not been believed.

Major Lee was finally right. He had no case.

It was 1620 hours when Tom walked into the big central room used by his team. Larry was making coffee on the big black stove. He took one look at Tom. “You look like you could finish this whole pot in one gulp and then some,” he commented dryly. “It’ll be ready in a couple of minutes.”

Tom grunted. He went straight to the Uninvestigated Case Report File and began flipping through the cards. He knew he had to put KOKON out of his mind before it became a goddamned fixation. The only way he knew of doing that was to get involved in another case at once. Okay. So that’s exactly what he’d do. KOKON was out He’d made his deal with Lee. He’d stick to it.

If only he could rid himself of that nagging feeling of missing something. Something big.

Larry brought him a canteen cup filled with steaming jet-black coffee. “Here,” he said. “Coat your tonsils with this. It’ll put hair on ’em.”

“Thanks.”

Tom pulled a case card. “Anything new and fascinating?” he asked. “I’m looking for a good and juicy case.” He read the card. “What’s this ‘shot fired, vicinity Oberwiese’? Looks like your scrawl.”

Larry took the card. “Yeah. Came in a few hours ago. Some AAA captain"—he squinted at the writing—"Slam . . . Sloan. Captain Robert Sloan. He reported a shot fired in the woods in the mountains. Near some godforsaken place called Oberwiese. Some kind of mountain pasture. He seemed to think it was enormously significant. Why, beats me.”

He consulted the card once again, not without difficulty. “His outfit is the 459th Anti-Aircraft Artillery Battalion. They’re stationed just outside Regen.”

“Where the hell is Regen?”

“Little burg north of here. About twelve miles. It was supposed to be secure two days ago. Maybe that’s why Sloan’s got a case of itchy crotch. It’s on the main highway from Prague.” He grinned. “You can’t miss it!”

Tom looked up quickly. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll take it.”

Larry shrugged. “No one’s going to fight you for it It’s no blue-ribbon ballbuster of a case, if you ask me.”

“I’ll run up first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Who do you want to team up with?”

“You.”

“Thanks a bunch!” Larry returned to the stove.

Tom looked at the card. He began to decipher Larry’s scrawl. Regen. First town in Germany on the main highway from Prague.

Okay, he’d stick to his deal with Major Lee. He’d take on a new case. Lay off KOKON. The Regen case seemed as good a bet as any. He fingered the card in his hand. He wasn’t really hedging that bet—just because Regen was on the Prague highway.

Larry turned to him from his chores at the stove. “Hey! What happened to that hot KOKON deal of yours? Anything?”

Tom shrugged. “Kaput,” he said.

4

The black and white sign next to the open farmyard gate read,
HQ MAESTRO CHARLIE
—code name for the 459th AAA AW Battalion. The farm, a drab group of gray squat houses and barns placed squarely around the spacious cobblestoned farmyard, was located on the outskirts of Regen.

The town of Regen was a scant ten miles from the mountainous Czech border. Lying in the valley of the Regen River at the crossing of two main highways, one running east-west, the other north-south, it was of greater importance than its size would indicate.

It had suffered a severe shelling by tanks of Combat Command B, 11th Armored Division, on April 24th, and the town had been entered and secured by that unit and by the 21st Armored Infantry Battalion the same day.

It was 0715 hours when Tom and Larry parked their jeep in the farmyard, which was cluttered with a conglomeration of farm machinery and military equipment.

Captain Sloan, an intense, humorless young officer not given to wasting time with polite chatter, came straight to the point.

He had reported the single shot, heard coming from the woods near Oberwiese, for reasons he proceeded to detail in a clipped, methodical manner.

One, no American troops were in the area at the time in question. Two, as per Army directives all firearms and other weapons had been confiscated from the German population at the time the area had been secured. Consequently there should have been no shot fired in the vicinity.

Since a shot
was
in fact fired, and not by a GI, certain questions became paramount. One, who fired it? Two, how did the subject firing the gun obtain it? Three, for what purpose was the shot fired?

Two prime possibilities suggested themselves. One, a local inhabitant had concealed and retained a firearm against the specific orders of the occupation forces. If so, why? Two, a subject or subjects unknown had infiltrated the area since it had been rendered secure. If that was the case, who were they? Why were they armed? What was the purpose of the shot?

These questions obviously all had to have answers—and the answers had to be found.

Examined in this light, the seemingly inconsequential matter of a single unaccounted-for shot having been fired in the forest took on more significance, and he, Captain Robert Sloan, felt it incumbent upon him to report the incident at once to the CIC for proper investigation.

Tom and Larry exchanged glances.

The investigation would be carried out. Immediately.

Oberwiese was not on the map.

The two CIC agents had to get directions from the local
Bürgermeisteramt
—the mayor’s office. The
Bürgermeisteramt
himself, who had been allowed to remain in office—at least temporarily—nearly fell over himself in his efforts to be helpful.

Oberwiese was the residence of the
Staatsforstmeister
—the state forester and game warden—in charge of the state hunting preserve that comprised the mountain forest area between Regen and the border. The
Forstmeister
and his family lived at Oberwiese, but no one in Regen had been in contact with the man, or anyone else from the place, for several weeks.

A dirt road—little more than a wagon trail—snaked up into the mountains.

Larry was disgusted. The whole thing would turn out to be no more exciting than the tit on a ten-year-old. The man at Oberwiese was a gamekeeper. A hunter. He was used to shooting game. Very likely he needed it to feed his family. He probably kept back a gun for just that purpose, when his weapons were confiscated by the U.S. troops. As simple as that. And as boring. But they were this far. Might as well check the place out.

The road suddenly forked. An old weatherbeaten signpost leaned on one leg.
OBER IESE,
2
KM,
it announced. A bullet hole had neatly obliterated the W.

The shot? The famous single Oberwiese
shot?

Tom stopped the jeep, and Larry jumped out to examine the signpost. He shrugged wearily. The hole was obviously months—or years—old.

Oberwiese turned out to consist of two main buildings—a house and a barn—and several more or less ramshackle coops and sheds.

The forester, his wife and four children—two girls and two boys between the ages of nine and thirteen—lived in the main house. But obviously the barn was occupied as well.

Larry stayed with the jeep, keeping an eye on the barn. Tom went to the house.

The forester, Hans Kampers, was a round-faced man with pale blond hair bristling the top of his head, shaved high above the ears, and a small toothbrush mustache. He was smiling from ear to ear, showing bad teeth stained by tobacco. He was lying in a huge bed, nearly hidden by the soft mound of a gigantic featherbed. His entire family was gathered apprehensively around the desperately grinning forester, who all but sat at attention and saluted when Tom strode into the stuffy, overheated room.

The man greeted Tom with effusive deference. It was an honor for his humble home to be visited by an American officer. He would, of course, at once get up to greet him as befitted his rank and importance if it should be required, but he had regrettably been bedridden with a broken leg for over a week.

He tried to throw off the featherbedding to let his leg bear witness to his words, but it became a losing battle. He snapped his fingers, and at once his two boys jumped to haul back the voluminous bed covering and show off their father’s bandaged leg.

“It has kept me here,” the man said plaintively, “in bed. A man like me, who is always up and out in my
Revier
before dawn. Here. On my back. For many days now.”

Tom believed him. The room stank of his confinement. “You are the
Forstmeister?
” he asked quickly. He was anxious to get his stay over with and get into the fresh air again.

“
Jawohl,
Herr Offizier!” the man said proudly. “Staatsforstmeister Hans Kampers, Staatsjagdrevier Regen, at your service!”

“You own a gun?”

“Three, Herr Offizier.” The man beamed broadly. “Two shotguns. A Kettner, double barrel, and a Merkel, over and under. That one is wonderfully carved. Also a rifle. A Mauser.” He suddenly looked resentful. “It is, however, an ill luck that has befallen me, Herr Offbrier. My guns have all been taken from me.”

“By whom?”

“By the
Amis—
” He caught himself hastily. “By the Americans. I have here a receipt signed by the American sergeant. Also with his rank. He leaned over toward a nightstand next to the bed, trying to wrestle a drawer open. It was stuck. He could not get the right leverage. Again he snapped his fingers, and again his boys jumped to assist. The older one handed his father a piece of paper.

The forester in turn handed it to Tom with a ceremonious flourish. “Here it is.”

It was the receipt for three guns, property of a state official. It was signed by a sergeant from the 21st Armored Infantry, two days before.

Tom gave it back to the
Forstmeister.
“Any other guns?” he asked

The German looked shocked. “Other guns?” His round face became indignant. “Of course not, Herr Offizier. I would have given them to the soldiers. As they commanded me to do.” The smile returned to his moon-shaped face. “It is only temporarily. It was explained to me. I am a state official! I shall have my guns returned to me. Any day.”

“Who lives across the street?” Tom asked.

The
Forstmeister
looked surprised. Then he smiled broadly. “In the barn!
Ach ja!”
He shook his head. “They are refugees. Civilians. They have no place else to go. I let them stay.”

“Who are’they?”

The man frowned in concentration. “There is a woman. The widow of a Wehrmacht officer. And her son. There is Fräulein Ilse, and there are two ex-Wehrmacht soldiers—Gefreiter Beigel and Unteroffizier Joachim.”

Automatically he counted on his fingers. “Five. Five of them.”

Two women, a child . . . and a discharged army corporal and sergeant.”

“How long have they been here?”

The German shrugged. “Many days. They came just after I broke my leg.” He made an elaborate gesture of spitting on the floor. “Pfui!
Zum Teufel damit!
—The devil take it!” He grinned. “They are harmless!”

“Who fired the shot here yesterday?” Tom asked suddenly.

The man started. “We did not,” he said emphatically. Instinctively his whole family drew closer around him, their frightened faces all turned toward Tom.

“We heard it, naturally. One shot. I even said, Who could that be shooting in the forest? In my
Revier?”
He looked at his wife. “Did I not say that,
Schatzi?"

The woman nodded solemnly.

“Yes, I did,” the forester said firmly. He looked at Tom.

The matter was settled.

The group of refugees from the barn stood silently, resentfully before the two CIC agents, their sullen faces trying not to betray their hostility too overtly.

Tom knew it was there. He knew why. He and Larry represented the enemy—an enemy responsible for the discomfort they suffered, for their loss and the uncertainty of their future. That had to be the worst of all. The uncertainty.

He had examined their papers—all as acceptable as any in the disrupted world of German bureaucracy. The
Sold-buchs
of the two soldiers seemed in order; the
Kennkartes
of the civilians appeared genuine. There was no reason to suspect that they were not exactly what they claimed to be: people, uprooted and flung about by the whirlwind of war. No reason at all.

Tom contemplated each one of them in turn.

Gefreiter Beigel, Anton, forty-seven. A large heavyset man with a ramrod posture and a coarse-featured, cold face. Unteroffizier Joachim, Dieter, forty-three. A scholarly-looking man, slightly stooped. Perhaps a former schoolteacher. With steel-rimmed glasses, and on the verge of baldness.

Both ex-soldiers still wore their field-gray Wehrmacht noncom uniforms, with all insignia removed. They still had on their heavy hobnailed military boots.

His uniform, Tom thought, the last thing a defeated soldier gives up. Only after his weapon—and before his life.

Had Tom been confronted with two German noncoms of the relatively advanced ages of Beigel and Joachim when he first became operational as an investigator, he would have been at once suspicious. A forty-seven-year-old corporal would have been, to say the least, unusual.

But not now. Not at this stage of the war. Men of even the slightest military use were now either drafted into the regular army or forced to serve in the Volkssturm, where it was not uncommon to find men in their seventies fighting side by side with boys of twelve. A forty-seven-year-old Wehrmacht corporal no longer aroused his suspicion.

The older woman, the officer’s widow, was matronly and stiff, her pinched face grim. Her thirteen-year-old son stared relentlessly at the two enemy officers, his expression vacillating between fear and hatred.

Fräulein Ilse, Ilse Neumann, was a pleasantly plump blond girl in her twenties, with a soft, sweet face. She had served as a Wehrmachthelferinn—a German WAC—with a communications outfit. She stood close to Gefreiter Beigel, as if seeking protection in his manly stature.

Tom and Larry had screened the five refugees. Their stories had been plausible. Just vague enough to make them sound legitimate. The investigation at Oberwiese had proven unproductive. The mysterious “Oberwiese Shot” remained mysterious.

Captain Robert Sloan, 459th AAA, was not the slightest bit perturbed that the investigation in Oberwiese had produced no concrete results. He had made his report. As a consequence an inquiry had been made. That was the important thing. The incident was closed.

But Tom was dissatisfied. He hated the idea of an investigation that turned up absolutely nothing. Although he did concede to himself that this was actually never the case. Every investigation produced
some
information, however obscure. It was a word for which he had great respect: information. Information invariably led to more information, and information was the lifeblood of any battle, be it a battle of guns or of wits. He knew that somewhere along the line in his questioning of the Oberwiese crew he had gained some information of value.

But what? He did not know. It made him uncomfortable. He decided to try to salvage some of what otherwise would have to be logged as unproductive time. There was one way of doing it.

Every outfit billeted close to the front maintained a temporary civilian detention enclosure. A sort of guarded catch-all compound to hold anyone not able to identify himself properly, or who for one reason or another had made himself suspicious. Here such detainees awaited screening and disposition.

The 459th AAA was no exception. The unit’s detention enclosure was located at a farm a short distance away. Periodically CIC checked these detention cages in search of mandatory arrestees, war criminals and other subjects dangerous to the security of the U.S. armed forces. The two CIC agents would inspect the battalion’s enclosure. Might as well. They were there. At least their trip would not have been a total waste.

Tom had worked out a special procedure for such inspections. Usually among the detainees in custody in any given compound there would be a discharged Wehrmacht Hauptfeldwebel—a master sergeant—with the gruff voice and manner of a real DI. Tom would single the man out and give him specific instructions, and the German noncom would take over while Tom merely watched. It was surprising how the Krauts jumped to the orders of one of their own!

Bellowing his orders, the sergeant would line up the men. Scowling and cursing, he would dress the motley crew for inspection. He would inform them that a war criminal wanted by the Americans was known to be hiding in their ranks and that the American Intelligence officer had come to arrest him. He would then smartly turn the inspection over to Tom.

As Tom slowly walked along the rows of men standing stiffly at attention, observing them closely, he could literally pick out every one with something to conceal. These men would be given thorough interrogations. Tom had apprehended numerous subjects using his Wehrmacht sergeant.