Sleeper Agent (28 page)

“Sir!”

“See to it, will you, please? And the signal to London.”

“Right” The officer left

Squadron Leader Barlow fixed Tom with an inquiring stare. “About the drop,” he asked. “I presume you do have jump training, old boy?”

For a flash of an instant Tom was back at the Marine Base at Quantico, Virginia. Parachute jumping had been a request course during his training. He had been excited and curious. He had requested it. For several days he and a few other MIS candidates had trained at the Marine base, jumping from the tower, learning to guide the chute, to land, to roll, to control the chute on the ground. Then one sunny afternoon he’d made two training jumps from one thousand feet. He did not remember the first one. He’d been too excited. But afterward his neck had been red where the risers had slapped him as the chute opened, and his shoulders were sore from the opening jerk. On the second jump he’d come down so hard he’d been convinced his teeth had all been rearranged in his mouth.

“Yes,” he said.

“Excellent.” Squadron Leader Barlow sounded satisfied.

“What about a contact in Copenhagen?” Tom asked.

Barlow shrugged regretfully. “Haven’t a bloody clue,” he said. He turned to Flight Lieutenant Campbell. “I say, you must have an idea, Campbell. Used to be involved in that sort of thing, right?”

“Yes, sir. Flew a couple of missions.”

“We need someone with the proper spirit, what? Imagination.”

Campbell thought for a moment. “What about Sven, sir? Sven the Mole?”

Barlow’s face lit up. “Capital idea, Campbell,” he said. “Rather an active bloke, I understand.”

“Bit more than that, I’d say.”

“You’re damned right!” Mike Holland broke in. “He heads one of the most effective groups of Freedom Fighters in Denmark.”

“Right,” Barlow said. He turned to Campbell. “Tell Saunders to arrange it.”

“Yes, sir.” Campbell left

“Who is this Sven?” Tom asked.

“Go ahead, Mike,” Barlow said to Captain Holland. “Earn your blasted keep. Tell him about the ‘Mole’ ”

“Okay,” Mike said. He turned to Tom. “Sven is quite a character. He didn’t get the code name ‘Mole’ for nothing. He was involved in one of the damnedest, most incredible underground projects—and I do mean underground— pulled off in any of the countries occupied by the Nazis. I’ll make it short and sweet.

“It started back in September of 1944, when the Germans in Copenhagen, in the confusion of a fake air raid alarm, disarmed the entire Danish police force and marched on the King’s palace, where the King was in residence, killing anyone who tried to stop them. At the palace itself, Amalienborg, they were finally driven off, but it became too damned apparent that King Christian and the members of the royal family were virtually prisoners in the palace and couldn’t be evacuated in case of danger.

“A group of Danish patriots decided to do something about that. Among them, Sven. During the next several months they pulled off a stunt you won’t believe.

“The Krauts were stationed in buildings completely surrounding the royal palace. Every approach, every exit from the place was heavily guarded by German troops. There was only one possible way of creating an avenue of escape. An underground tunnel running from the palace to the city outside—literally under the very feet of the Nazis!

“And the crazy Danes did it! They moved tons and tons of dirt They had powerful air compressors force gigantic two-ton pipes of reinforced concrete five feet in diameter through the earth, creating a hundred-foot-long tunnel smack under the Kraut billets! Whatever noise the Germans picked up and complained about was innocently blamed on the ancient royal plumbing.

“Every damned bit of equipment—electric pumps, hoists, wheelbarrows, tools, machinery and God knows what—was smuggled past the Germans’ noses. Getting construction materials—especially cement—was the biggest problem. The only construction the Nazis allowed was on their own fortifications.

“And this is where Sven comes in. He’d been working on the project. He assured the builders that he’d get them their cement. Little by little. But they’d get it.

“He figured the only place to scrounge the cement was from a Nazi construction site. He borrowed a horse-drawn wagon from a friend who had been pressed into service on such a project, figuring that he could get away with stealing a sack or two of cement, off and on, to keep the project going.

“The first time he tried it, he’d just loaded a sack on his wagon and was about to drive off with it when a Kraut voice shouted at him
‘Halt!’
He damned near dropped off his seat. With his heart in his throat, he turned around. A German officer stood next to his wagon glaring menacingly at him. He had an instant vision of himself tied to a stake facing a firing squad.

“ ‘What the devil do you think you are doing, you lazy Danish dog?’ the Kraut hollered at him. ‘You think you will hold up our work by carrying only one sack at a time! Sabotage! Against the Reich! You are lucky I do not have you shot! Get that wagon loaded. Full. At once! And be on your way.’

“You’d better believe Sven needed no second order to obey that command! He damned near broke his back heaping sacks of cement on his wagon.”

Tom laughed.

Mike continued. “Sven worked as hard as anyone on that fantastic tunnel. The passage was finished in January, and the Danish Crown Prince Frederik himself tried it out.

“Sven, who’d been active in the underground practically since the country was occupied, formed his own group of Freedom Fighters. He called it
Muldvarpen
—the Mole. Sentimental, I guess. He and his group have been extremely effective.”

He looked at Tom. “That’s the Sven we think would be the man for you.” He glanced at Squadron Leader Barlow. “Right?”

“Rather.”

“I’m sold,” Tom said.

Flight Lieutenant Campbell entered. “All is in order, sir,” he said. He consulted a note in his hand. “There is a mission laid on for tonight. Take-off at 0100 hours. A routine drop in Norway. Sten guns, Mark Twos. Ammunition. Field dressings. PE. That sort of thing. No personnel. They’re not exactly keen on it, but they’ll detour across Denmark. Drop Agent Jaeger near Copenhagen. The time of the drop should be about 0430 hours. They’re sending the Mole a signal to have a reception committee on hand.”

Barlow nodded. “That’s it then.” He looked at Tom. “Get your gear together. As soon as you’re ready, Flight Lieutenant Campbell will fly you over.”

Tom looked puzzled. He eyed Campbell. “Are you flying the mission to Norway?” he asked.

“Good Lord, no, old chap,” Campbell said. “We don’t fly that sort of job from here. I’ll pop you across the Channel. There’s a field near Norwich. You’ll take off from there.”

“That’s all we can do from here,” Squadron Leader Barlow said. “Except wish you bloody good luck!” He eyed Tom quizzically. “I’m afraid you’ll need it.”

Rudi was fully alert as he walked quickly through the empty field. He was surprised at the utter quiet and stillness of the night. Flensburg, the center of much last-moment military activity, was only ten or twelve kilometers to the east.

He had discarded his uniform tunic and picked up an old work-worn jacket and a soiled cap in a barn at a farm just outside the village of Wallsbüll. He had freed his Danish papers from their place of taped concealment in the small of his back and placed them safely in his pants pocket.

He was now Rudolf Rasmussen. Danish subject.

He estimated he could be only a kilometer or two from the border. He looked up into the gloomy night sky. He wondered if he would be able to tell when he had actually crossed. Ahead he could make out the black, ragged silhouette of a forest. That would be Frøslev Forest. In Denmark.

He felt a surge of bitter irritation. That damned rat! If it hadn’t been for that
verschissene
beast he would not have had to take the risk of sneaking across the border. He could have walked right through the German checkpoint. He would have had his German ID. Without it with only his Danish papers, he dared not risk it. He was forced to make it across clandestinely, without being spotted.

He looked at his watch. It was just past 2300 hours. Within the hour he would be across the border.

The forest was dark and silent. Rudi had not seen or heard anyone. Only once a German motorcycle patrol had roared past in the distance. He had hit the ground and had not been seen.

The border had been nothing but a fence, no different from other fences around the fields in the area. A short distance into the woods he’d come across a dirt road. He knew he had crossed the border. A signpost read,
FRøSLEV
.
It was written in the Danish alphabet.

It was the third time in his life he’d crossed the border into Denmark. The Danes had a saying: “
Alle gode Gange tre—
Third time, best time.” He fully expected them to be right.

He walked rapidly along the road. He stayed on the grass-covered shoulder to muffle his steps. Ahead, the road made a sharp turn around a thicket of spruce trees. He rounded the bend—and stopped short.

Before him, not twenty feet away, a man stood at the roadside relieving himself against a bush. Nearby a bicycle leaned against a tree.

Rudi at once took in the scene. The man wore a uniform. An unfamiliar uniform. He carried a sidearm. A Danish border guard. He shot a glance at the man’s gun. He’d have to bluff it out. “
God Aften,
” he said pleasantly, in impeccable Danish.

The man nodded. “
Go’ Aften.
” Unperturbed, he finished his business. Meticulously he buttoned up his pants and stepped back onto the road. He peered at Rudi, his head slightly askew. “And what might you be doing here, my friend?” he inquired.

Rudi slowly walked toward him, sizing him up. Late forties. Slow-moving. Sturdy. Farmer type. . . . If he could only get close enough.

“Have to be in Frøslev first thing in the morning,” he said. “Thought I’d get an early start.”

Again the man nodded ponderously. “Come from Broderup?” he asked.

The map of the area flashed in Rudi’s mind. “Sofiedal,” he said. He stepped closer.

The man bobbed his head again. “It is a fair walk,” he commented.

Rudi was only a few feet from him. He took another step. Now!

Suddenly the man exploded into unexpected action. Rudi felt rough, powerful hands grab his left arm, twist it, whirl him around and seize a breaking grip on his little finger.

The sudden pain stabbed up through his arm. Involuntarily he cried out. He felt as if his finger was about to snap. He thought quickly. Something had tipped off the border guard. What? He dismissed it. It was not important now. Important was to get free from the crippling finger grip.

He tried to pull his hand away. The grip instantly tightened. The pain shot through him.

“
Naa, naa, naa,
” the man said calmly. “
To’ den med Ro!—
Take it easy!”

Rudi fought down a groan. Then he quickly thought better of it. He groaned in agony. “Please!” he whined. “Please! It hurts.”

“That’s better,” the guard grumbled amiably. “You behave, and we two will get along together just fine.” With his free hand he reached for a pair of handcuffs hanging at his belt.

Rudi’s mind whirled. Somehow the pain in his hand made his thoughts sharply clear. He could not let the guard get the cuffs on him. He had to break free. His mission could not end here.

He let out a little cry. “What the devil is the matter with you?” he whimpered. “You’re breaking my finger!”

“Not yet, my friend,” grunted the guard. “But I will if you try anything.”

“But why?” Rudi complained. “I haven’t done anything!” He let the plaintive whine hang between them.

“Then you have nothing to worry about have you?”

The guard had the handcuffs in his right hand. He brought one cuff up to snap on Rudi’s wrist. For a moment his grip on Rudi’s finger seemed to slacken.

Savagely Rudi yanked his hand away. He felt the guard exert a sudden vicious pressure. He felt his finger snap. The pain shot up through his arm to stab lances of searing agony into the back of his eyes.

But he did not flinch. He leaped clear. In the same motion he bent down and drew his knife from his boot. When the startled guard lunged for him, he rammed the knife up into the man’s chest cavity, instantly wrenching the handle sideways to inflict the greatest possible internal injury with the slash.

The guard died on his feet—but not before his astonishment had registered in his wide-open eyes.

Rudi looked at his mangled hand. It throbbed painfully. The little finger had snapped completely in the joint next to the knuckle. He had known it would happen, but the choice between capture and a broken finger had been no choice at all.

He glanced at tine body of the border guard. Fair enough, he thought sardonically. Your life for my little finger. He felt no animosity toward the dead man. He felt nothing.

They had taught him not to hate when he killed. Killing was not personal.

He grabbed hold of the body and rolled it into the ditch. It emitted a ghastly hollow groan as the air was forced from its lifeless lungs.

He sat down on the ground next to the bike. He examined his throbbing finger closely. The sharp splinters of broken bone protruded through the torn skin. The finger hung loosely from his hand, as if it did not belong there at all. He took his knife and stabbed it into the ground several times to cleanse it of the drying blood from the guard. It was the second time in one day, he thought.

He knew what he had to do. He suddenly felt ridiculous. He remembered all the superpatriotic films of incredible heroics he’d seen back in Regensburg. Ufa’s
Hitlerjunge Quex. SA Mann Brand
and
Hans Westmar
—
Einer von Vielen
with Emil Lohkamp. They, too, had gritted their teeth grimly, and courageously done what had to be done!

Shit!

He’d always felt a little contemptuous of the audience, raptly devouring those films and their obvious message. He did not need such crutches to be certain where his allegiance lay.