Sleeper Agent (5 page)

They walked with their arms around each other in eager closeness and unity. Soon it was not enough. They found a little barn, half filled with new-mown grass. The scent was an intoxicating opiate.

He felt near bursting with excitement, with ardor and desire. He was seventeen years old and he felt he was at last
a man.
He desperately wanted to
act
the man. Elsa was as ready as he, and the grass was soft and yielding. He held her tight.

Elsa. . . . She would be his first woman. His very first. He caressed and kissed her small thrusting girl-woman breasts, and she was eager for him. He was hot with passion. He crushed her young body to him. He strained against her. He was
a man.
. . . But so tense, so pent up was his want that at the very first intimate man-woman contact he lost control. Completely. Even before having entered the aroused girl.

He was humiliated, crushed. He begged her for another chance; a few minutes’ rest and everything would be all right She said nothing, but he could feel her frustration . . . and contempt. They lay side by side in silence in their fragrant crib. And the exhaustion of the eventful day proved too great. He fell asleep. . . .

At precisely five o’clock the next morning he was jolted awake at the sound of a thousand trumpets rousing the great tent city nearby to the new day. He at once looked around.

Elsa was gone.

He hurried back to his section. No one had missed him. With his comrades he marched past the Führer himself in step to stirring martial music with swastika flags flying proudly. He pushed the memory of the night from him. It had been unimportant. The important thing was the fact that he, Rudi, was part of Germany’s future!

It was all there in his diary. He still had it among his possessions. In it he had also written about Elsa. But that page was torn out. . . .

He was suddenly aware that the commandant was addressing
him.

“All right, Lieutenant You would not wish to sit down?”

. . . He snapped out of his reveries. He had to watch himself. “If it pleases Herr Kommandant,” he said crisply. “I am fine.”

The commandant gave him a searching look. “As you wish.” He resumed reading: “On leaving the Hitler Youth in 1933 upon reaching the age of eighteen, subject had reached the rank of Bannführer. He graduated from Linz Gymnasium and became assistant to his father in the State Forestry Service. In 1934 he left Austria and went to Munich. Here he worked in various capacities. He joined the NSDAP and was loyally active in party affairs. Enlisted in the SS Verfügungstruppe in 1937. Served meritoriously during the period of the Austrian Anschluss, March, 1938. Subsequently won rapid promotion in the Waffen SS, being commissioned first lieutenant in 1939. Distinguished himself in combat during Polish Campaign, September, 1939, while serving in March Combat Group Bock of the Fourteenth Army under Generaloberst List of the Southern Army Group, commanded by Generaloberst von Rundstedt At the annihilation of the Polish Sixth Division, Cracow Army Group, at Cracow, and the annihilation of the Polish Twenty-second Division, Przemysl Army Group, at Krasnik. Commendations attached. Later, during the defeat of France, he was instrumental in halting a tank counterattack at Dunkirk, for which action he won the Iron Cross First Class, twenty-one May 1940. . . .”

. . . He felt a touch of pride. He always did when he thought of his Iron Cross.

The Engländer had launched an armored attack at Arras in an attempt to break out of the closing Dunkirk trap. No one had expected them to try anything so foolhardy, and the encircling troops were taken by surprise. He, Rudi, had been manning a machine gun position at an auxiliary weapons distribution point, the MG 34 guarding a crossroad, when a column of British infantry tanks came lumbering down the road.

He thought fast. He grabbed a
Granatwerfer
36, and while his fellow machine gunners in vain tried to halt the enemy tanks, he ran to a small depression in the field flanking the tank column. A direct hit by the lead tank on the MG position obliterated it, leaving the tanks a clear road ahead. But as they started forward, he was ready. Firing the light mortar singlehanded, he destroyed two of the tanks and damaged a third while the raking machine gun fire from the tanks probed for him. He delayed the advance of the column long enough for reinforcements to arrive and rout the remaining enemy armor. He was proud of his action, and he could still remember the dull plopping sound of enemy machine gun bullets slamming into the ground inches from his place of concealment He remembered, too, with pride that he had not been afraid—only elated. He had been certain nothing would happen to him. Not to him. . . .

The civilian walked to the table and began to make notes in a small black notebook as the commandant read on briskly: “Because of subject’s high intelligence quotient and aptitude for foreign languages he was transferred to Military Intelligence School in 1941. Studied military intelligence procedures as well as the Danish and English languages, graduating in the top five percent of his class. Because of his special knowledge of Denmark and the Danish language, subject was assigned to the Protectorate High Command in Copenhagen, Denmark, in December, 1941. at the first signs of organized undercover resistance. His mission: to perform undercover work under supervision of the Gestapo and Abwehr III—Counter Espionage—which organizations needed reliable agents who could pass for Danes. Letters of the highest commendation for his work during this period from SS Standartenführer Bovensiepen, Chief of Gestapo, and High Administrator SS Obergruppenführer Dr. Werner Best are hereto attached. . . .”

. . . He vividly recalled his first undercover assignment after being attached to the counterespionage organization in Copenhagen. It had been the first time he had returned to Denmark after his childhood stay with the Rasmussen family. It had been strange, but he did not let mawkish feelings of sentimentality interfere with his duty.

It had taken him only a few weeks to become completely acclimatized—a “Dane.”

He had infiltrated a group of young saboteurs dramatically calling themselves “Torshammer,” after the avenging weapon of the Norse god Thor.

One of the members had been suspicious of him. He had talked the others into making certain he was a native born Dane. They had given him a menu to read. It was an old trick. It had been used in the First World War, too. Only someone born and raised in Denmark could pronounce the ridiculous sounding name of the national Danish desert that appeared on every menu, a sort of red fruit pudding served with cream. Only a native Dane. Or a Vienna Child. He had no problems.
RØdgrØd med FlØde
had been his favorite when he lived with his foster parents.

The Torshammer group had been assigned the destruction of a small factory producing ball bearings for the German aircraft industry. The operation had been well planned, but he had not been able to warn his superiors in Abwehr III before the action was carried out He still remembered his surprise at the fantastic sight of the building’s entire roof, intact, shooting straight up into the air and crashing down, obliterating the machine shop. It had been a Sunday, and not a soul had been in the factory.

The saboteurs were elated, but the Gestapo had picked up every one of them within the hour. They were secretly executed by a firing squad. The Nazis were not yet ready to admit that there was serious trouble in their “showcase” protectorate.

The Gestapo had asked if he wanted to watch, but he had found some excuse. He always felt a little ashamed of that. It
had
affected him. He had known them all. Well. But he had been able to shake the uneasy feeling quickly. He knew they had thought of themselves as patriots, and he reluctantly admitted to himself that had he been in their shoes he probably would have acted as they did. But he was not. And they were, of course, enemies of the Reich. They deserved their fate.

Still, he liked the Danes. They were Aryan, after all. They were close to being German. He sometimes even had admired their audacity in the face of superior force. Like that little fellow on the street in Copenhagen. A nobody. A bookkeeper or something like that. . . .

A German staff car had caught fire and was burning fiercely. A group of Danes stood around doing nothing but watching and looking rather pleased. He had come upon the scene but could, of course, do nothing lest he give himself away.

Suddenly this little fellow had come running up. He had a pail in one hand and a bicycle pump in the other. He filled the tiny pump from the pail and gave a single squirt at the burning car. After a while he squirted again, and repeated the action every now and again. The car kept blazing merrily.

He had no longer been able to contain himself. The little man’s effort was so pitifully ridiculous. He walked over to him and asked, “Do you really think that is doing any good?”

“Of course,” the little fellow had answered, squirting the flaming car once more. “It’s kerosene!”

He chuckled to himself. He had to admire that kind of spirit. . . .

. . . “Yes, Lieutenant?” It was the commandant.

Yes? Had he chuckled out loud? He must have. He had to be careful. He could not afford to lose himself in daydreams. His mind was too tired.

“Nothing, Herr Kommandant Sorry, Herr Kommandant.”

He forced himself to listen attentively to the droning voice of his superior officer as he continued reading: “In 1943 subject, Rudolf Kessler, was recruited for the Sleeper Agent program following reactivation of that undertaking earlier that year.”

The colonel looked up from the dossier. “It should be noted, sir,” he said, “that the withdrawal of Kessler from his undercover work in Denmark at the height of Danish underground terrorism and his transfer to the Sleeper Agent program was effected only over severe protests by the authorities in the Danish Protectorate. However, Berlin felt that the Sleeper Agent undertaking had priority. Sleepers placed in foreign countries prior to the war have proven enormously effective, as for instance the Sleeper who caused the French liner
Normandie
to capsize and burn in New York Harbor in ‘forty-two. An exceedingly successful operation, sir. The agent, having become a naturalized American citizen, had lived in Chicago, working as a hairdresser, until he was activated and charged with the
Normandie
mission. Also in—”

“I
know
the importance of the Sleeper Agent program, Colonel!” the civilian interrupted curtly. “Continue!”

“Of course, sir. . . . Subject arrived at Schloss Ehrenstein

training school in September. 1943,” he read. “Basic training and indoctrination completed September, 1944. Special language, social and psychological studies for Sleeper activity in the United States begun October, 1944, with special tutoring in the American dialect and contemporary expressions.” He glanced at the civilian. “The tutor was a native born and educated American from the city of New York,” he said with obvious self-satisfaction. “We arranged to obtain him from the American Bund. He was, of course, of great value to the project, providing the subject with what is called ‘slang’ in America.”

The civilian nodded impatiently.

The commandant continued: “Subject’s code name: Rudi A-27. Readiness tests completed"—he looked up from the dossier—"as of . . . now, sir, eighteen April 1945.”

He closed the file and handed it to one of the Gestapo officers. He turned to the civilian. “Rudi A-27 has at this moment full knowledge of our extensive preparations for a Sleeper Agent network coast to coast in the United States. He is the top agent so far graduated from Schloss Ehrenstein.” He looked straight at the civilian. “Shall we continue?”

“By all means.”

The commandant turned to the two Gestapo officers. “You are dismissed.”

The officers came to attention. Two pairs of heels clicked as one; two arms shot out stiffly as the men chorused “Heil Hitler!” and left.

The civilian walked over to stand directly in front of Rudi. There was no friendliness on his hard face, no compassion in his cold voice. Only deadly determination. “You have impressed me, Obersturmführer Kessler,” he said. “Although I do not appreciate melodramatics.”

Rudi stood stiffly at attention. He kept his silence. He wondered about the civilian. He was obviously a man of consequence. Great consequence. Rudi was tense, his numbing fatigue all but forgotten. He felt certain the next few moments would be the most important in his life.

The civilian continued: “You have been selected for a highly special top secret mission. It will be dangerous. Are you willing to undertake such a mission—no questions asked?”

“Yes, sir.” He did not hesitate.

“You have sworn your oath of loyalty to your Führer, of course.”

“Of course, sir.”

“Repeat it!”

He drew himself up. He forced his exhausted mind to remember the words. “I swear to you, Adolf Hitler, as Führer and Reichschancellor, loyalty and valor. I vow to you, and to those you have named to command me, obedience unto death, so help me God!”

“Good. Remember it. It is the single most important fact in your life.” For a moment the man stared searchingly at the young officer before him. “We shall use your training, Lieutenant, your cunning and your stamina to the last vestige of it, do not fear. We shall use your special knowledge of the United States of America and our network there. We shall use
you,
any way we see fit Understood?”

“Yes, sir!”

“You will now make yourself ready to leave here. Leave Schloss Ehrenstein. Your commandant will brief you regarding your transportation. Your final mission briefing will be in Berlin. You will be there within three days. The day of the Führer’s birthday. You will keep this in utmost secrecy. That is an order! You are dismissed.”

He turned away from the young officer without acknowledging the inevitable “Heil Hitler!” salute. As soon as he heard the door close behind Rudi, he picked up the telephone on the table. Brusquely he gave the operator a number. He waited. Then he spoke into the rceiver, carefully holding it so that it did not come in contact with his face.