The Red Eagles (15 page)

By midmorning Joe was driving the Buick south toward Atlanta. He knew the road well, having spent two vacations visiting the old battlefields where Johnston had fought his brilliant rearguard campaign against the butcher Sherman. Kennesaw Mountain, Marietta, Peach Tree Creek – rolls of glory reflected in the road signs. Confederate flags still fluttered on flagstaffs in the gardens of suburban Atlanta.

He didn’t feel the slightest bit nervous or tense, which surprised him. This was by far the most dangerous part of the operation; it needed only one pair of unwelcome eyes to spot the surfacing U-boat and the FBI would be pouring into Georgia like Sherman’s army. But Rosa had said the spot was well-chosen, and she hadn’t been wrong yet. She was quite amazing, though about as human as a block of ice. He wondered how the man in New York had found her. Or had she found him? Not that it mattered.

Beyond Atlanta he followed Sherman’s route to the sea. He imagined the smouldering barns, the blazing fields, the women raped in the plantation mansions while the torches were laid. But he had to admit that militarily it had been a brilliant move. If Lee had shown such ruthlessness, things would have been different. Might have been, anyway.

The Buick purred onward. He loved driving, was proud of his skill behind the wheel. In his late teens he’d entered dirt-road car races as far away as Memphis and won quite a few of them. Trouble was, there were too many kids who didn’t care whether they lived or died, and though you could outlive them, they were hard to beat. He’d never been able to understand kids like that, kids who just ignored the odds.

Savannah lifted his spirits with its beautiful buildings. It was how a city should look. He stopped by the old harbour, checked his watch and odometer. Just over four hundred miles in under nine hours, and Rosa had been worried he’d be late! He had a doughnut and coffee in an empty diner and took to the road again. Another sixty miles.

At Richmond Hill he took out the map she’d marked and perched it on the dashboard. Turning off the main highway, he followed the route toward the coast, crossing the long trestle bridge that connected the mainland to Ossabaw Island. There was hardly anything on the road, and the island’s only town boasted few vehicles or people. The final stretch of road to the sea was hardly a road at all. The coastline was an unspoiled wilderness, heavily vegetated low cliffs and a rocky beach pummeled by the Atlantic waves.

He parked the Buick under the trees and took the signal lamp out of the trunk. The sun had almost set; there were four hours to wait. He clambered down the cliff and settled himself in a comfortable niche between two large rocks. Remembering the extra doughnut in his pocket, he devoured it with relish, the jelly oozing out over his fingers. Still feeling stiff after the day’s driving, he lifted himself out of the niche and went to wash his hands in a tidal pool. Leaning forward to splash his face, he caught a momentary glimpse of a shadow crossing the sky before the bullet exploded through his brain, knocking his body forward into its reflection.

Kuznetsky dragged Joe’s body out of the pool, across the rocks and up the bluff. Markham wasn’t heavy but it was still hard work. At the top he stopped to get his breath back, then pulled the body through the trees, past Markham’s car, and well into the woods. Then he returned for the car and brought it forward to the same spot. He got into the backseat and fired a single shot through the windshield above the steering wheel, hoisted Markham’s body into the front seat with the head pushed down on the wheel, resisting the temptation to close the staring eyes. After checking the car’s visibility from twenty yards away, he lightly camouflaged the chrome bumper with vegetation. He looked again and was satisfied. Anyone looking for it would find it, but it was unlikely to be found by accident.

It was quite dark now, and he had some difficulty in picking out the spot where he’d concealed his own car. He moved it out of the trees and onto the flattened area where the road reached the cliff. Judging by the empty bottles littering its perimeter, it was used as a picnic area.

He next eased the crate out of the backseat and carried it across to Markham’s car. There he jimmied it open and, using his weight, cracked one of the sides in half. It looked convincing enough – provided that Matson’s description of the uranium crates was accurate.

Clambering back down to the beach, he took up position in the niche Markham had found. It was a quarter past eight – three and a half hours still to go. He lit a Lucky Strike, leaned back against the rock, and inhaled deeply. He’d killed three men in America, two he’d never even spoken to, but his conscience remained untroubled. He supposed that most people would consider Duncarry and Lee innocent victims, but as far as he was concerned, innocence had vanished with mass newspapers and the radio. No one could claim innocence anymore. Except children and animals perhaps. Everyone else had been free to choose sides, consciously or not.

The evening star was sinking toward the ocean. He guessed it would be dawn in the Russian forest, wondered if Nadezhda was still faithful to him. The thought didn’t disturb him; if she wasn’t, it wouldn’t change anything.

He sat up suddenly, listening to the sound of an approaching car, then ran nimbly across the rocks to the base of the low cliff, watching the light from the car’s headlamps illuminating the air above the rim, and flattened himself against an outcrop.

He heard a door open, the last indistinct words of a conversation. Footsteps walking toward the cliff’s edge, a silhouetted figure above him appearing and disappearing.

“Who the fuck is it?” It was a young voice, a boy of fifteen, sixteen.

“No one local. It’s got D.C. plates.” A young girl, a Georgia peach of an accent.

“Shit.”

“C’mon, Jeff, there’s no sense in gettin’ fired up. Let’s go somewhere else.”

“Like where?”

A giggle. “Well, we can’t do it here, can we?”

“I’ll flatten the bastard. This is
our
place.”

“There might be more than one of them.”

“Umm.”

“C’mon, I’ve got to be home by ten.”

“Okay, okay.”

The footsteps receded, car doors slammed, a revving motor. The headlamps drew a circle of light as the car turned and headed back inland. Kuznetsky put his gun in the shoulder holster. What had he been thinking about children and animals? If they’d found the other car … He hoped they were the only young couple who thought they owned this trysting place.

But there were no other interruptions as the hour hand on his watch crept slowly forward. At 11:30 he started flashing the signal lamp at five-minute intervals, straining his eyes for a sight of the submarine. Several times he thought he glimpsed a periscope slightly to the north, but it must have been something else for, at precisely a quarter to midnight and directly ahead, U-107 broke surface with disconcerting abruptness. He flashed the light again, and thought he could glimpse figures climbing down from the conning tower onto the hull.

Breitner and Russman shook hands with the captain and launched the inflatable raft. Paul eased himself in and held it fast for Breitner to follow. Conscious of the U-boat descending behind them, they paddled for the shore, a dark wall that gradually resolved itself into a forested line of cliffs. The light blinked again and they shifted direction toward it.

“There’s not many who’re going to be able to say that
they took part in the Wehrmacht’s invasion of America,” Gerd whispered.

“Or the strategic withdrawal.”

“Optimist.”

When they were nearly there they could see the man waiting on the rocks. He waded out into the surf to help them beach the dinghy and indicated that they should follow him. He’d dug a hole for their boat and all three shoveled the sand back in on top of it.

“The clothes will do,” he said after looking them over. “I’m Jack Smith. Call me Jack,” Kuznetsky said in English.

“Gerd Breitner, and this is Paul Russman,” Gerd said, holding out his hand. The stranger’s grip was brief but strong.

“My German’s not very good,” Kuznetsky said, “but we speak English only from this moment in any case.”

“Understood.”

Kuznetsky led them up the cliff to the car. Gerd took the seat beside him, Paul the back. As they drove inland Paul watched the strange shapes of the foreign trees silhouetted against the sky. Here they were, he thought, casually driving through the American night, two officers in an army that was losing battles almost everywhere else. The whole business was absurd. Daring, perhaps, but if the Führer and his friends hadn’t yet learned that daring had its limits, then they were even madder than he’d thought.

Paul looked at the back of the stranger’s head. Who the hell was he? An Abwehr agent obviously, but he wasn’t a German. What reasons could any non-German have for supporting the Nazi cause? There were enough Germans with doubts. He didn’t suppose it mattered – the man seemed to know what he was doing. There was an air of authority about him that was almost chilling. And most un-American. Paul closed his eyes and listened to the purr of the car.

He was awakened by a prod from Gerd. They had stopped outside a hotel. Kuznetsky handed him a collection of
documents: driver’s license, military deferment, there were about ten of them. “Memorize them,” he said.

“Where are we?” Paul asked.

“Savannah,” Gerd replied.

“We’re staying the night here,” Kuznetsky said.

He led them into the hotel, where rooms had already been booked. A sleepy clerk showed them up, explaining that he got a tip for carrying the luggage even if there wasn’t any. “It’s the principle,” he said. Kuznetsky gave him one, pointed the two Germans into one room and disappeared into the other.

They didn’t bother to undress. “Very strange,” Paul murmured, looking down from the window at the empty street.

“
Ja
. Yeah.”

“Very good.” Paul indicated the next room. “He’s not what I expected. He’s no amateur.” He lay back on the bed. “I wonder how he’s avoided the Army.”

“Too old,” Gerd answered. “The Americans have still got some young men to spare.”

“It feels strange wearing these clothes. Do you know how long it is since we were out of uniform?”

“Too long, Paul. Go to sleep.”

It was a blazing hot morning, the heat of Africa wrapped in a clammy Georgian blanket. Paul was glad to see that their driver was sweating as profusely as he was, and that he’d had the sense to place a case of beer on the backseat.

Smith didn’t say much though. They learned that he’d had military experience in South America and Spain, but beyond such bare facts he offered nothing. He refused to discuss the operation until the fourth member of the unit – a strange name for it, Paul thought – was present.

“We have to know everything each other knows,” Kuznetsky said.

They asked him about the fourth member. He was a she. A German woman who’d lived twenty years in America. It was at this moment that Paul wondered if it were possible, only to dismiss the idea as ridiculous. She would never fight for Hitler’s Germany. “How old is she?” he asked.

“About thirty-five.”

That fit. But it couldn’t be. “What’s her name?” he asked.

“Rosa, as far as we’re concerned.”

Rosa. She’d had a doll called Rosa. “Is she attractive?”

“I suppose so. Why do you ask?”

There seemed no reason not to explain. “I knew a German girl who lived in America. She’d be about that age now. Just curiosity. It couldn’t be the same woman.”

“Why not?”

Was he imagining it, or was there an edge to Smith’s voice? “She had no reason to help Germany, rather the opposite.”

“What did she look like?”

“Slim, dark-haired, a lovely face. Full of life.” It was funny, he could see her so clearly, even after all these years. “Amy,” he murmured.

Kuznetsky could hardly believe his ears. His mind raced. How could this have happened, how could something so vital have been ignored? Question followed question. When had they known each other? How much did he know about her – was her cover blown? The German might be talking about a chance meeting at a party when they’d both been in America. He might be talking about a love affair lasting months. He knew she had “no reason to help Germany.” What did he know? Christ, what a mess.

What could he do? There was no way of warning her – they’d just come face to face at the lodge. He’d have to play it off the cuff. But could he and she do it on their own? He unconsciously tightened his grip on the steering wheel.

“She is slim and dark-haired,” he said, measuring his words. “I wouldn’t say she was – what did you say? – full of life. But people change. It could be the same woman. But there are a lot of Germans in this country who support Germany without loving the Führer. How well did you know her?”

“Oh, I don’t know. We knew each for only a few days. A long time ago. 1933.”

“Not a memorable year,” the other German said ironically.

Kuznetsky breathed an inner sigh of relief. That was before her recruitment; the German couldn’t know anything specific. But … if there was one complication they hadn’t needed, it was something like this. He wondered how she’d react. Coldly, he supposed. The death of a current lover hadn’t seemed to upset her that much, and eleven years was enough to kill off any emotion, certainly anything generated by a few days’ romance. If that’s what it had been. And what else could it have been? He pulled the car off the highway and drew up outside a diner.

“Lunch,” he said calmly.

Amy spent the morning trying to read, and constantly found her mind wandering off in other directions. The tension in her body seemed to grow by the minute, and she doubted if the endless cups of coffee were helping. She felt like a real drink, but Joe had decided against bringing any.

She crushed out her cigarette, retrieved one of the tommy guns from their hiding place, and walked west along the lee side of the ridge. Under the trees it was cool, and even on the stretches of open ground the breeze made the heat bearable, even pleasant. She passed above the pool feeling no communion with the woman who had lain there two days before. Her body today felt like an alien attachment, just a means of transport for her mind.

After she’d walked a mile from the road, she unslung the gun from her shoulder, took aim at a line of hickory trees, and fired a short burst. The gun was a good one; the action was smooth, the recoil minimal, and it was not as loud as she’d expected. Her marksmanship was good too; she’d always been an excellent shot. Three of the trees had been hit, and at an even height. If there turned out to be a need for her to use the gun, there’d be no problem.

She walked back to the cabin slowly, feeling more relaxed than she had. A few more hours and they’d be here. Two German officers, two of her fellow countrymen. She hoped they’d be SS, real Nazis.

The afternoon dragged. She lit the stove, mixed a stew
from an assortment of cans, and left it to simmer. Then she sat by the window, staring at the forested ridges receding into the haze. This is it, she told herself, the moment of commitment. From today there would be no turning back, no more choices. The thought comforted her. No more choices. And no more deception. The debt would be paid in full.

The light had begun to fade when she heard the approaching car. She walked out front, shielding her eyes from the glare of the setting sun. Her first concern was the driver, and she felt immediate relief on seeing Kuznetsky’s profile behind the wheel. The German in the front got out, then the one in the back, and her heart did a somersault. Eighty million Germans to choose from and they’d sent
him
.

Her heart thumped, her mind whirled. She had just a few seconds to change her story – he would never believe she was a simple German patriot. With an enormous effort, she propelled her legs forward out of the shadow to greet them.

“Hello, Paul,” she said quietly.

“It
is
you,” he said. “It’s been a long time.”

“Eleven years,” she said automatically, suddenly conscious of the expression on Kuznetsky’s face. He knew, was hanging back, waiting for her cue. Oh God. “Let’s get inside,” she said cheerfully, turning back toward the door. “There’s some food almost ready,” she called back, disappearing into the kitchen and praying that he wouldn’t follow. He didn’t. She heard Kuznetsky showing them their rooms.

The shock was wearing off slowly, ever so slowly. After all, the number of Germans of his age with the necessary experience of America was bound to be limited – it shouldn’t have been such a surprise. And she’d been anti-American even when she knew him. That would have to do: patriotism and anti-Americanism outweighing her hatred of the Nazis. It was thin, but what reason would he have to doubt it? She was here. Eleven years was a long time; she could have changed. She had changed, if not in that direction.

What would Kuznetsky be thinking? First Richard, now this. Hearing footsteps, she turned, thinking it was him, but it was the other German. “Gerd Breitner,” he said, offering his hand. “We weren’t introduced.” They shook hands, and he ambled over to inspect the stew on the stove. “Smells good,” he said. “Anything would smell good after four weeks in a U-boat. Rather a surprise, yes?” he added.

She knew what he meant. “Yes, it is.”

He looked at her with a steady, not unfriendly gaze. “For a moment I thought Paul had seen a ghost.”

She returned his gaze. “We were close once. Things got in the way. I never thought I’d see him again, and I suppose he thought the same. But,” she continued, turning away to stir the pot, “it won’t make any difference to the operation. It was all a long time ago.”

“Eleven years,” he muttered.

The four of them ate at the trestle table. The two Germans talked incessantly to each other, Kuznetsky said nothing, and Amy concentrated on feeding a nonexistent appetite. As soon as they were finished she cleared the dishes away and disappeared into the kitchen, refusing any assistance.

She returned to find Kuznetsky placing a large map across the table. He went through the plan, first running through the intended chain of events, then the emergency procedures devised to cover conceivable failures. He showed the Germans the photographs of the train and Coon Creek Valley, produced a diagram he’d drawn of the attack itself. Tomorrow they would see the valley for themselves.

“There can be no survivors,” he said impassively. “The train will be missed at Huntsville, that’s one hour. They won’t be able to contact Scottsboro or Bridgeport, that’s another. If they start looking immediately, they could find it in one more. That’s three hours. By that time we won’t be a third of the way to the coast, and if anyone’s alive to identify
us or the vehicles, we’ll never reach it.” He looked at the two Germans.

“Agreed,” Gerd said grimly.

Paul said nothing, but gave an infinitesimal nod.

“Delivery,” Kuznetsky continued. “Rosa – Amy – and I will take the crates in the camper. A woman will arouse less suspicion, and as an American I’m the best qualified to deal with any unforeseen trouble. You two will take the car. We’ll take different routes” – he indicated them on the map – “and meet at Ossabaw Island the following evening.”

“So we’re just here for the shooting,” Gerd said.

“You’re here as soldiers. Any suggestions?”

“No, it seems tight enough.”

“Are you coming back with us?” Paul asked, not looking at Amy. “We weren’t told, and neither was the U-boat captain.”

“Not unless something goes wrong. We plan to be back here next morning, continuing our vacation,” Kuznetsky said, treating them to a rare smile.

Paul turned to find Amy looking at him. He held her gaze for a second. She broke the contact, saying she’d make some more coffee. He watched her carry the bucket out to the well, thought of following and decided not to. Since seeing her, since hearing in the car that it might be her, he’d been experiencing an apparently inexhaustible variety of emotions. She was as beautiful as ever, he thought, but harder, much harder, at least on the surface. Yet she didn’t want to look him in the eye.

He wanted to tell her about the letters, but this obviously wasn’t the time. There probably never would be a good time. The past was better left as it was. They’d both changed, and though he knew it was unjustified, he couldn’t help feeling a deep resentment. He wished she’d been anyone else, leaving his memories intact, unsullied.

Amy and Kuznetsky sat on the only chairs; Gerd had found the checkerboard and played with Paul, the two of them sitting against the wall with the board between them on the floor. Two oil lamps were burning but the light was still dim, and the room seemed full of moving shadows.

Amy was trying her novel again, but every now and then she glanced across at Paul, who was sitting, purposely she guessed, with his face turned away from her. He seemed so unchanged in some ways: there was still the physical reticence complementing the withdrawn eyes, the feeling that he was watching the world rather than taking part in it. There’d been flashes of the old sense of humor, the thread of irony that seemed to run through most of his utterances. His companion’s too. The boy was still there in the man.

But there’d been one change, one that was both subtle and all-embracing. Each of the characteristics seemed to have been exaggerated: the eyes were more withdrawn, the humor more bitterly manic, as if the parts of his being were straining at each other, as if the boy and the man were finding it harder to get along with each other.

His partner was quieter, more watchful. He seemed as diffident as Paul, but she knew he was taking in everything. Gerd had noticed her glances at Paul. Physically he was heavier set, but in some manner he reminded her of a big cat; there was the same blend of self-confidence and constant wariness. And she could almost feel the protective mantle he threw around Paul. In fact the relationship between them seemed almost symbiotic. She felt a twinge of jealousy, then laughed at herself for being ridiculous.

Kuznetsky was doing nothing, just sitting there smoking cigarettes and staring into space. “I’m going to bed,” she announced, getting up. “Sleep well,” Gerd said. Kuznetsky and Paul said nothing.

“Where’ve you seen combat?” Kuznetsky asked after she was gone.

“Almost everywhere,” Paul said, moving one of the black pieces.

“France, the East, Africa,” Gerd answered.

“Where in the East? I’ve taken a particular interest in the Russian campaign.”

“So have we,” Paul muttered.

“The march to Moscow. Almost to Moscow. Kharkov, Kursk, Vitebsk.”

“Which division?”

“Seventh Panzer.”

“The Ghost Division.”

Paul looked up. “Yes,” he said ironically. “Nothing but ghosts now.”

Extraordinary, Kuznetsky thought. The four people in this lodge, like intertwining threads of the twentieth century. First her and the German, now this. They’d fought in the very division his Siberians had faced on the northern outskirts of Moscow in the last days of 1941. Wonderful, terrible days, when every mile recovered had contained a thousand frozen German corpses, when everyone knew that Hitler had been halted in his tracks. It had felt like spring, a blood-soaked frozen spring. Each morning the drop in the temperature had been announced, and his Siberian troops had cheered, knowing that each degree colder would kill another division of the Nazis.

And yet the Germans had fought on, most of them still clothed in denim, many of them half-crippled with frostbite. It had been pathetic, wonderful, beyond reason, beyond humanity. And these two had been through it. He’d known before they answered. It showed in their faces, seeped out through their humor.
I have heard the iron weep
. In those days there’d been nothing else to hear.

“Lovely day,” Gerd said, stopping by the window to examine the view. Outside, he could see Smith giving the vehicles a final check.

“It’ll get a lot hotter,” Amy said. She turned to Paul, the list in her hand. “Right, what’s your name?”

“Paul Jablonsky.”

“Date of birth?”

“August 5, 1908. Milwaukee, Wisconsin.”

“Army record?”

“One Hundred and Thirty-fourth Division. Purple Heart and medical discharge after Battle of Kasserine.”

“Present employer?”

“General Motors. War production consultant.”

“That’ll do.”

“Am I married?”

“No.”

“I wonder why.”

“You never found the girl of your dreams, perhaps.”

“Or found her and lost her.”

Kuznetsky came in at an opportune moment. “Everything’s ready.”

He drove, Paul beside him, Gerd and Amy in the back. There was nothing on the road down the mountain; between Lim Rock and the valley they passed only two trucks. Paul had forgotten how vast America was, remembered Schellenberg’s remark about empty territory, which no longer seemed quite so absurd.

They drove up the narrow, claustrophobic valley, stopping just short of the trestle bridge. “It’s going to be very dark,” said Paul to no one in particular.

“Our eyes will get accustomed,” Gerd said.

“Yeah.” Paul walked across to the area assigned to him, imagined the train pulling to a halt, the doors opening … Another graveyard. The place reminded him of one of those narrow valleys in the Ukraine – where had it been …?

“Outside Rzhavets,” Gerd said, reading his mind.

“The day I drove the T-34,” Paul said, smiling.

“The day you
tried
to drive a T-34,” Gerd corrected him.

Paul didn’t respond. He was looking at Amy, sitting on her haunches by the side of the stream, noting the vivid contrast between the raven hair and the cream blouse.

“Memories,” Gerd murmured.

Paul wasn’t sure whether he was referring to the T-34 or her. “This is going to work,” he said thoughtfully.

Gerd grunted. “Seems almost too easy. Someone in Washington’s going to suffer,” he added. “And deserves to.”

“We’ve still got to get home, and the problems won’t end when we reach the U-boat.
If
we reach it. They’ll be scouring the Atlantic for weeks.”

“Big ocean.”

“The approaches to the ports aren’t so big.”

“Well, one step at a time.”

They walked back to the car, where Kuznetsky was already waiting. Amy followed, carrying a posy of small white flowers in her hand. Flowers from a graveyard, Paul thought with a shudder.

At the end of the lodge road the two Germans got out, and Smith wished them good luck with one of his rare smiles and drove himself and Amy off toward Scottsboro. Paul and Gerd ambled along the track, the former engrossed in his own thoughts, the latter wondering how to broach the subject. Straightforwardly, he decided.

“How does it feel to see her again?”

Paul grunted. “How indeed?”

“Why did you never mention her? You’ve talked enough about other women.”

“Good question.” He kicked a stone into the undergrowth. “The one I’ve been asking myself, in a way. What made her so special? Gerd, this sounds crazy, but maybe first love really doesn’t die. Or maybe it was just the time. It was 1933, and I was coming back to Germany, a different Germany, and my father was dying – it felt like a moment
between two lives. We met on the ship, had three wonderful days together, and then never saw each other again …”

“Why not?”

“Oh, a series of accidents really. It doesn’t matter. What I’m trying to say is that we, the two of us, those few days, they seemed – not at the time but afterward – as if they’d existed outside normal time, as if they had nothing to do with this world. Again, it sounds crazy, but it was like a moment of innocence – of
adult
innocence – and everything since has seemed corrupt in comparison …”