Sleeper Agent (33 page)

Together they ran for the bomb-blasted Gestapo Headquarters building. They raced to the floor where the blast had taken place. The area was a nightmare scene of destruction. The acrid stink of cordite from the explosives hung in the dust- and smoke-filled air. Water from broken pipes gushed and gurgled over the rubble. Mangled, badly injured Gestapo men lay everywhere, some screaming in agony, others moaning in mindless shock.

The body of one officer lay hurled, decapitated, across a shrapnel-scarred desk. With part of his whirling mind Tom observed at least a half dozen mutilated dead.

Those who were able to and had not fled from the gore and carnage were milling about in aimless confusion.

Tom realized it would be impossible to spot Rudi, were he indeed there. But there was Dettling.

He grabbed an SS man who was staggering down the corridor clutching his bleeding, bone-slashed right arm to him. “Dettling!” he shouted at the benumbed man. “
Wo ist
Sturmbannführer Dettling?”

The man stared at him in uncomprehending shock. He whimpered, tears running from his eyes.

Tom let him go. He stopped a Scharführer who came running with an armful of scorched records, his face sooted and blood-streaked. “Sturmbannführer Dettling?” he demanded with curt authority.

The sergeant shook his head. “Don’t know,” he said. “Perhaps in his office.” He nodded down the corridor. “Down there.” He ran on.

Tom and Sven made their way through the rubble and litter. The door to one of the offices had been blown half off its hinges. They glanced inside. The place was a total shambles. Part of one wall had imploded, blasting broken masonry through the room.

On the floor, leaning against a splintered desk, sat an SS officer, holding his right leg with both hands, staring at it in stupefied horror. It had been sheared off below the knee. The blood spurted from the stump in rhythmic crimson jets.

Tom instantly recognized his rank insignia: Sturmbannführer.

The two men rushed into the demolished office. Tom knelt by the crippled officer. “Dettling?” he asked hoarsely.

The man nodded. “
Zu Befehl—
At your orders,” he mumbled automatically, never taking his dazed eyes from his bloody leg stump.

Tom at once tore at the black SS tie around the man’s neck. He freed it. Quickly he made a tight heavy knot in the middle of it. He brushed the SS officer’s hands away from his leg and tied the necktie around his thigh above the knee. He looked around. He grabbed a jagged piece of wood from the splintered desk, inserted it under the tie, and turned.

The tourniquet tightened. The blood spurts from the mangled leg stump slowed and stopped.

The officer looked up at Tom. “Get me . . . away from here,” he said hoarsely.

Tom glared at him, his eyes burning. “First,” he snapped, “you answer a few questions!”

Dettling stared at him, his agonized, drawn face uncomprehending.

“Rudolf Kessler,” Tom barked at him. “Have you seen him?”

Dettling’s face turned deathly white. He began to tremble. He said nothing.

“You are dying, Dettling!” Tom said savagely. “You want to live?”

The man nodded, terror-stricken.

“Then talk, dammit! Now!”

Dettling’s mouth worked. He shivered violently. From pain . . . and fear. He was rapidly going into shock.

“Where is he, Dettling?” Tom demanded. “
Where?
”

Panic-stricken, Dettling shook his head.

Suddenly Sven pushed Tom aside. He grabbed the wood splinter in the tourniquet and roughly tore it away. Instantly the blood began to spurt from the maimed stump. Sven put his face close to the SS officer, a face of cold fury. “Now you listen to me, you German son of a bitch!” he snarled. “If you want to bleed to death all over the goddamned floor, go ahead! If not, you had better talk! You had better make it good! And
I
will decide if it is!” His voice was low, controlled but vicious. “And just so we understand one another, Sturmbannführer Dettling, I don’t give a shit whether you live or die!”

The German frantically tried to stay the flow of blood from his leg. He stared in horrified supplication at Sven. “For God’s sake! Please!” he begged. “Please! Don’t let me die.”

“
Rudolf Kessler
” Sven snapped inexorably. He reinserted the wood splinter in the tourniquet and stanched the spurting blood.

Dettling watched, mesmerized. He nodded. “He . . . he was here.”

“When?”

“This . . . morning.”

“Where is he now?”

“I do not know.” The SS officer looked terrified. “Believe me! I do not know!” He looked wildly from one of his interrogators to the other.

“Did he get any instructions from you?” Sven asked.

Dettling hesitated.

“Make it quick,” Sven spat. “You have sot much time!”

Dettling nodded. “I . . I gave him the list,” he whispered.

“What list?”

“The . . . the final Sleeper list,” the man murmured. “For the operation in America.”

Sven shot a grim glance at Tom. “What else?” he asked tautly.

“I . . . I informed him that his cover had been compromised. All exfiltration plans . . . canceled. I . . . instructed him he must activate . . . alternate plan.”

“What plan?”

Dettling looked petrified. His terrified eyes flitted from one to the other. “I do not know,” he whispered, beseeching them to believe him. “I only know there
is
an alternate plan.”

Sven and Tom exchanged glances. Tom turned to Dettling. “Did Kessler know the alternate plan?” he asked.

“No.”

“If you did not give it to him, where would he go to find out?”

Dettling’s face was chalky white. He stared empty-eyed straight ahead of him. “Tosca,” he breathed.

“Tosca?”

Sven said quickly, “It’s a German café. Restaurant. Here. In Frederiksberggade.”

“Who,atTosca?”

“Undercover . . agent,” Dettling said. His strength was ebbing away, spreading in a crimson pool oozing on the rubble-strewn floor. “A . . . waiter.”

“His name?” Tom pressed urgently. “
His name?
”

For a moment Dettling remained silent Then he breathed. “Wolff.”

Tom stood up. He stopped a couple of SS medics hurrying by in the corridor. “In here!” he barked sharply. “Get this man out of here!
Schnell machen!
—On the double!”

The medics jumped to obey as Tom and Sven hurried from the devastated Gestapo building.

The name rang in Tom’s mind. The name whispered by Dettling. And by Helga Rasmussen:
Wolff.

Tom, Sven and Klaus were hurrying toward Frederiksberggade and the notorious German Café Tosca.

Tension on the city streets was stretched to the breaking point. The expectant pressure was building moment to moment Everyone felt certain that the end of five long years of oppression and despotism was near. But how would it come? When? What would happen? Would there be fighting in the streets? Would Copenhagen in the last desperate moment be turned into a bloody battlefield? The whole town was like a giant boiler without a safety valve, ready to blow.

The three men were riding through a narrow street in the old quarter near the University. Small groups of excited young people were everywhere. Ahead of them a group of about a dozen students were cheering a speaker.

Suddenly a shot rang out from a rooftop above. And another. One of the young men fell. At once everyone scattered, two of the students dragging their wounded friend to safety. In a moment the street was empty.

Tom and the two Danes with him had come to a halt. “Snipers!” Sven said angrily.

“Trigger-happy bastards.” Tom peered up toward the rooftops.

“
Hipos.
” Sven nodded. “They are nervous,” he said grimly. “They have reason to be. They know what is in store for them.” He got off his bike. “We’ll leave the cycles here,” he said. “Cut through the back yards. It’s only a few blocks.”

Within minutes they stood before Café Tosca. It was dark. Abandoned. Closed as tight as a Nazi hand salute.

Rudi smoldered with suppressed fury. He’d missed his rendezvous with Wolff. The Tosca had been dead and deserted when he arrived. He cursed silently. His next contact with Wolff was not possible until 1200 hours the following day. Saturday, May 5th. He glanced at his watch. Close
to
2000 hours. Sixteen
verfluchte
hours wasted, at the worst possible time. But Wolff had gone underground. Hanging around the Tosca had become dangerous because of the mood of the people. There was no possible way for him to locate the man. Damn security and secrecy!

He finished dressing. The blue pants bunched at the waist when he tightened the belt. He knew the seat looked baggy.

When he’d found the Tosca closed, he’d needed time to think, time to take stock. He’d gone to a public bath only a couple of blocks away. In Studiostraede. What better place to be alone for a couple of hours? And safe. But he couldn’t stay there forever. He had to get out.

The situation in the streets was fluid—unpredictable. Tense, restless crowds were surging through town, waiting. It could be dangerous to walk about with his compromised ID. An unnecessary risk. He needed new papers. Temporary papers.

He suddenly felt hunted. He set his face grimly. The hunted of necessity must be able to turn disadvantage into advantage
Schon gut!
—Fine!

He would join the damned crowds in the streets. He’d mingle with the Copenhageners. He’d even wave a Danish flag if he had to. The devil take it! And he’d keep his eyes open for someone of his own build, his own age. In the chaos of the developing conditions, a simple robbery should not be too difficult to carry out.

He had finished dressing. Resolutely he left his damp little private sanctuary. On the way out of the public bathhouse he nodded pleasantly to the fat middle-aged lady at the desk dispensing soap and towels. He was on his way. In search of a temporary identity. Good until 1200 hours, May 5th.

For the second time that day Sven and his “moles” were gathered in the undistinguished little apartment across the yard, second-floor-left.

Klaus had been left in Frederiksberggade to keep an eye on the Tosca in case the waiter named Wolff should show up. But Sven and Tove and most of the others had returned.

A plan of operation had to be formulated. They would have to canvass the neighborhood around the German café—question neighbors and shopkeepers in the area, anyone who might provide them with a lead to Wolff. Tom was deeply concerned. It was a time-consuming procedure. And time was running out.

The Freedom Fighters were restless. More than anyone they felt the anxious uncertainty shared by the whole town.

Holger interrupted the discussions. “It is time,” he said.

At once everyone converged around the radio. In silent, taut suspense they watched Holger manipulate the dials. Reception was noisy with static, interference by German jamming transmitters. But through it the familiar Beethoven’s Fifth signature of the BBC could be heard. London was on the air. It was 8:30
P
.
M
.,
Friday, May 4th.

The Danes listened with every conscious fiber of their bodies.

An announcer spoke. In Danish. With measured delivery the words cut through the static. The British are close to the Danish border. No estimate when they will reach it.

“That’s Johannes Sørensen,” Tove whispered to Tom as she listened to the familiar voice.

There was more. Bits of news. Commentary on the fall of Berlin. Hamburg. Then suddenly there was a few seconds’ pause.

When the announcer came back on the air his voice had a clarion ring to it: “
I
dette Øjeblik meddeles det, at Feldmarskal Montgomery har oplyst, at de tyske Styrker i Holland, Nordtyskland og Danmark har overgivet sig!
” His voice broke with emotion. “
Danmark er after frit!
”

For a moment there was a stunned hush in the room. Then a jubilant shout of victory went up from the little group of Freedom Fighters. It rose and swelled. Awesomely, it was like a primer for a gigantic explosion of joy, relief and deliverance that roared up from a million throats, building, gathering, rolling in triumph and rejoicing over the rooftops as the news like instant flash fire engulfed the entire city.

Tom did not have to understand Danish to realize what he had just heard.

At that moment Montgomery had announced the surrender of all German forces in Holland, North Germany and Denmark.

Denmark is free again!

Tove ran to the windows. With savage vehemence she tore the ugly, hated blackout curtains down and hurled them to the floor.

Sven held up his arms. “Break it down!” he shouted.

Instantly the young men were galvanized into action. Two of them manhandled a large worn sofa away from the wall at the far end of the room. Another pushed aside an end table, from which yet another snatched a lamp with a scorched paper shade.

Holger stood before the bare wall. Suddenly he aimed a violent kick at the drab wallpaper. His booted foot crashed through the wall. At once eager hands ripped and tore at the breach. It was a false partition. Behind it was a large walk-in closet, which had been concealed by the false wall panel. It was an arsenal.

Quickly the Freedom Fighters handed out the weapons and equipment stacked in the hiding place. Guns. Ammunition. Steel helmets. They helped one another fasten armbands around their upper left arms—blue, with red and white stripes and Denmark’s coat of arms. The army of Freedom Fighters was mobilizing.

Sven came up to Tom. He was at once excited and sober. “You understand, my friend,” he said. “We can no longer help you. The time we have been waiting for, training for, arming for—the time to do our duty—has come. At last!”

He swept the room with his eyes, proudly. “All of us here must now report at once to our predetermined positions. It is expected of us. We must follow the specific plan. It has been carefully laid. Others depend on us.”