Sleeper Agent (15 page)

He did not miss the quick glance of sudden apprehension exchanged between the forester and his wife, but he took no notice of it. He gave a little laugh. “We tried to trick them,” he confessed. “We told them it was
you
who had informed on them!”

The forester’s mouth fell open. He stared at Tom.

The woman’s face drained to a sickly gray. Instinctively she clasped the two youngest children to her. She turned to her husband. “
Gott im Himmel!”
she breathed. “Oh, my God!” She crossed herself.

The man swallowed with obvious difficulty. “You . . . you told them . . .
I
. . .” The words croaked from him.

Tom shrugged. “Well, they didn’t fall for it. And since it’s not true, it’s of no consequence.” Briskly he went on. “You should have no problems with them Herr Forstmeister. We told them we were going to investigate further. Put a little fear of God in them.” He smiled pleasantly. “They’ll behave.” He turned to leave. “
Grüss Gott,”
he said.

Ashen-faced, the forester stared after the two CIC agents. “Wait!” he cried hoarsely.

They stopped. They turned back toward him. He stared at them with terror-filled eyes.

“You cannot leave us here with them,” he whispered. “Please! They will kill us!”

“Who?” Tom snapped.

“Beigel . . . Joachim.” The man’s voice was on the verge of cracking. “It is true, what you said. They
are
generals! They
are
hiding. They . . . they will kill us if they think
we
gave them away!” He swung his legs from under the featherbed to sit on the edge of his bed, every muscle in his body taut His two boys rallied to him. “
Bitte,”
he implored. “Please. We—”

Tom interrupted him coldly. “You knew the two soldiers in the barn were General Staff officers!”

The forester stood up. He was oblivious of his broken leg in the heavy soiled bandages. He took a step toward Tom. “You do not understand, Herr Offizier,” he pleaded. “They threatened us. They said—” He held out his arms to encompass his family. “My family . . .” He blinked at Tom, beseeching him to understand.

For a moment Tom stood in silent, frowning thought, the sole target of the anxious stares of the forester’s family. He looked searchingly at each one of them in turn. Finally he turned to Larry.

Solemnly Larry nodded his head.

Tom gazed straight at the agonized forester.

“Perhaps,” he said slowly, “perhaps under the circumstances we might . . . overlook your forgetfulness.
If!
If you tell us all you know, now!”

The woman quickly turned to her husband. “Please, Hans! Please!” she begged.

The German looked at his four children. And his wife. All anxiously watching him. He sighed. He turned to Tom. “What do you wish to know?” he asked heavily.

“Where is Colonel Cornelius? Where are the others?”

“Somewhere in the forest I do not know where.”

“How many are there?”

“About . . . a dozen. Maybe more. They often come here for food. Late in the day.”

“Are they armed?”

“Yes.” The German looked away.

It suddenly made sense. The whole absurd masquerade suddenly made a hell of a lot of sense. All Beigel had to do was stall. Stall until Cornelius and his troops came to Oberwiese. Late in the day. The Germans could make short shrift of them all: Larry, himself—and their half dozen unsuspecting GI’s!

“When do they come here?” he asked.

“At dusk. Usually.”

He glanced at his watch. It was 1317 hours. There was time. He glared at the German. “I think you had better tell us
where
Colonel Cornelius is, Herr Forstmeister,” he said. There was unmistakable menace in his voice.

The man shook his head. He looked wildly at his wife. “But I do not know.
I swear it!”
The man looked terror-stricken. A film of the thin greasy sweat of fear coated his pallid face. For a moment there was not a sound in the sour-smelling room.

The next move was up to Tom. . . .

Suddenly the younger boy stepped in front of his father. Big-eyed, big-eared, bucktoothed and barefoot, his grimy lederhosen looking as if he’d been born in them, he planted himself firmly before the CIC agent “
I
know where he is,” he said, staring straight up at Tom. “If you will promise not to hurt Vati and Mutti, I will show you.”

The woman looked thunderstruck. Her hand flew to her mouth.

“Otto!” she exclaimed.

The forester put his hands on the boy’s shoulders. He drew him back close to him. “He is only nine, Herr Offizier,” he said in quick defense of his son. “He did not know. He . . . he likes to go into the forest. To play
Jäger
—hunter. He may have seen something . . .”

Involuntarily Tom started at the sound of his name. That’s what he was. A hunter. A hunter of his own people. And there before him his latest prey, run to ground. For an instant he felt unclean. Then his rational mind prevailed, and he shook off the intrusive thought It had no base in cold reality.

He bent down on one knee in front of the boy. His eyes on the level with the child’s, he said, “Thank you, Otto.” His voice was kind and serious. “You can be of great help. To us. And to your parents.”

Otto grinned widely. His large buckteeth seemed to light up his entire face.

Quickly the CIC agents laid their plans.

Two men were assigned to guard the group from the barn, keeping them inside. Two men were given sentry duty. And two men were sent off to Regen with orders to bring back reinforcements. On the double!

Tom gently questioned Otto.

With his small-boy curiosity, Otto had followed Colonel Cornelius into the forest one day, pretending in his game of playing hunter that the officer was a wild animal to be stalked to its lair without being discovered. Although he had not actually seen the bivouac area of Cornelius and his men, he had a good idea where it was.

In less than an hour two squads of men from the 21st Armored Infantry barreled into Oberwiese, and with little Otto as a guide Tom and Larry took their search party into the woods.

In silence they followed a narrow path winding up a gentle slope among the thick evergreens. After half an hour’s walk they came to a clearing where the slope leveled off. At one edge of the open plot a large bare rock formation thrust up through the grassy ground. A perfect landmark.

Otto stopped. He pointed to the woods across the clearing. “In there!” he whispered, his eyes shining with excitement “That is where the colonel went.”

Quickly Tom and Larry deployed their men. Skirting the open ground, they quietly, cautiously infiltrated the woods ahead, while a disappointed Otto was ordered to stay hidden where he was.

Tom walked carefully, watchfully through the forest undergrowth, wending his way around clumps of brush and overgrown rocks. On both sides of him he could see GI’s stealthily moving forward, searching and probing.

He made his way around a thicket of shrubs. Suddenly he stopped short He stared. Dug into the ground directly in front of him was a big camouflaged tent so skillfully placed and concealed that it blended perfectly with the forest floor and underbrush. One more step and he would literally have tumbled down upon the heads of his quarry!

At once he held his hand high. Around him the GI’s stopped in place. Tensely they watched him. He pointed to the hidden tent He motioned his orders, and quietly the men surrounded the area, weapons ready.

The damp air hung heavy among the silent trees. There was no motion to be seen, no sound to be heard.

Suddenly Tom shouted at the top of his voice, “
Rauskommen! Los! Hände hoch! Los! Los!”

At once the GI’s all around the area took up the cry: “Come out! Hands up! Get going! Out! Out! . . .”

The effect was instantaneous. The big tent in front of Tom literally heaved and shook with the sudden motion within. Bumps and bulges rippled in quick succession across the motley surface as the startled men inside leaped up and lurched against the canvas. A short distance away the astounding performance was repeated at another hidden tent Tom had not even seen that one.

From the two tents men in blue-gray uniforms came tumbling out. For a moment all seemed utter chaos. Soldiers stumbled about in complete confusion, hands on their heads or raised high in the air, looking for the omnipresent enemy. Weapons were forgotten. Not a shot was fired. The Germans had been taken completely by surprise.

They were quickly rounded up to form a bewildered group huddled in the small clearing between the two camouflaged tents, surrounded by GI’s.

Tom stepped forward. “
Achtung,
Sondergruppe Cornelius!” he called aloud—"Attention Special Unit Cornelius! Generalmajor Anton Beigel, Deputy Chief of Staff, Intelligence, Oberkommando der Luftwaffe, has ordered you to surrender! You will obey his command without resistance!”

The prisoners shifted uneasily. Tom looked them over. “Which one of you is Colonel Cornelius?” he demanded.

A small gray-haired man stepped forward. “I am Colonel Cornelius,” he said calmly.

Tom motioned him over. He indicated the group of prisoners. “Is that your entire command?”

“Yes.”

“How many?”

“Eleven officers. Six noncommissioned officers.”

“All from the Prague Field Echelon of the Luftwaffe General Staff?”

“Yes.”

Larry joined them. “The count is seventeen,” he reported to Tom.

Tom nodded. “It tallies.” He turned to Cornelius. “Who is your immediate superior officer?”

Cornelius looked startled. “The general, of course. Generalmajor Beigel.”

“At Oberwiese?”

“Yes.”

Larry was studying the calm Luftwaffe officer. “Why are you and your men camped out here, Colonel?” he asked. “Why are you not with General Beigel?”

Cornelius turned to look at him. He smiled. A condescending smile. “Cornelius, Eugen. Oberst
Fünf, drei, neun
—”

“Oh, shit!” Larry interrupted him in disgust. “Skip it!”

Cornelius at once fell silent. But the little smile did not leave his lips.

“That’s all, Colonel,” Tom said curtly. “Rejoin your men.”

Cornelius clicked his heels. With a slight bow he gave a military salute. He turned on his heel and deliberately walked toward the group of men in the clearing. He had been correct He had been courteous. But he had also given the unmistakable impression of mocking the two Americans.

The agents watched him. Tom found himself wondering about the man. He was an unusual officer. He seemed more a scholar than a soldier. Not at all like Beigel. And he was in complete control of himself. What had his function been on the General Staff? His assignment? He had countless questions to ask the man. But this was not the time. Not the place. Patience. Patience is the weapon of a hunter. More so, a hunter of men.

Larry was scowling after the German with annoyance. Suddenly he grinned. “Hey, Tom,” he said, nodding toward the prisoners. “You see what I see?”

Tom looked closely at the group. One of the men had turned toward the approaching colonel. He stood attentively, as if awaiting any orders the colonel might give. He wore the distinctive peaked Luftwaffe field cap. On his uniform tunic the Luftwaffe emblem, the flying eagle gripping a swastika in its talons, soared proudly over his right breast pocket. The insignia of rank on his collar tabs showed three hash marks, like stylized birds in flight on a light brown background. A Feldwebel. An intelligence noncom.

“How about it?” Larry asked. “Nothing I’d like better than to put the screws to that SOB Beigel!”

“Why not” Tom agreed. “Let’s have a little talk with that eager-beaver sergeant.”

It was late afternoon when the search party and the prisoners returned to Oberwiese.

Guarded by the entire detachment of GI’s
,
the captives were marched to the open yard area between the two large buildings. They were ordered to fall in and stand at attention. From the gamekeeper’s house the forester and his family, joined by Otto, watched with misgiving and awe.

When the prisoners were assembled the little group from the barn were brought out. Not one of them reacted visibly to the sight of the Luftwaffe PW’s standing stiffly at attention in the yard.

Larry stepped forward. In a loud, booming voice he gave the order. ‘Feldwebel Bergman! Make your report!”

From the ranks of ramrod prisoners the Feldwebel stepped forward. Smartly he wheeled and marched to the center of the column. Again he made a precise turn and with firm measured strides he all but goose-stepped to stand directly in front of Beigel, the self-styled corporal. His hand shot up in a stiff-armed Nazi salute. His heels clicked together with the sharp crack of a shot. In a loud, firm voice he said, “Herr Generalmajor! Heil Hitler! I beg to report that Sondergruppe Cornelius has surrendered!”

It was worth it!

Beigel turned red as an overboiled crab. His eyes, glaring at the hapless Feldwebel with venemous malevolence, bulked dangerously in his crimson face. His whole massive body shook with suppressed fury and impotence. His fists clenched in rage at his sides. His tightly compressed lips worked in frustrated anger. But he said not a word. Suddenly he whirled about, and utterly disregarding the GI guards, he stalked stiffly and heavily to the sanctuary of the barn, closely followed by two GI’s.

It was a most satisfying reaction. Dammit, it was worth it!

“Cornelius, Eugen. Oberst
Fünf, drei
. . .”

It’s got to be the thousandth time by now, Tom thought wearily as the tired voice of the German officer droned on. The man spoke slowly, deliberately. Each separate, familiar syllable hit Tom’s mind with the sting of a whip biting into a cringing spot already raw from countless prior lashes.

He let the officer finish his tedious litany, trying to shut out the, deadly drone. He needed the time to think. He glanced at Larry. I wonder if I look as beat as he does, he mused. From the way I feel, probably worse.

Larry was glaring at the German officer through eyes narrowed in anger. He took a short breath, on the verge of a sharp remark, but caught himself in the last instant Unconsciously he pressed his lips together in a thin, hard line. He looked away from the monotonously droning German.