Eva (29 page)

“Don’t be a ruddy ass, chum,” Forbes said. “
All
missions have bloody pitfalls. You can lump them into two principal situations: getting the bloody hell out of somewhere, and finding your bleeding way around after you’ve gotten out.” He cocked his head at Woody. “And what would you do, then, mate—in case?”

“In case—what?”

“In case things got a bit dicey and you bloody well had to get out of some bloody lock-up. And find your way around a strange countryside. What would be the tools most useful to you?”

“A sledgehammer and a Baedeker Tourist Guide,” Woody said sourly. “Don’t tell me you’ve sewn them into the lining of my clothes!”

“It is a regular music hall comedian we are, is it?” Forbes scoffed.

“I know all about your special tricks.”

“Do you now?”

“Yes, I do now,
mate.”

Forbes made a show of ignoring Woody’s attempt at parody. “How about a powerful saw? And an accurate compass? The two most valuable tools for an agent in the field?”

“Sure,” Woody said. “And I—
and
the Krauts—know all about your saws hidden in pencils or jacket lapels. And your compasses in buttons, or heels, or toilet kits, or what-have-you. No thanks.”

Forbes gave him a withering glance. “Well then, you should have no trouble with this.”

He turned on his heel and stalked in stiff-legged affront to a table. He grabbed a jacket, a pair of pants, a cap, and a pair of boots. He carried the bundle over to Woody. He threw it at him.”

“Here they are,” he barked.

“What?”

“The saw. And the compass.”

“Where?”

Forbes flicked a ham-sized fist at the bundle of clothes. “You can bloody well look for them,
mate!”
he snapped.

Woody did. With a vengeance.

He pried off the heels of the boots and examined every seam and sole minutely. He went over every inch of clothing and cut into lapels and seams and linings. He tried every button and almost ripped the cap apart.

He found nothing.

He looked at Forbes with grudging respect. “You mean there really are a saw and a compass in that mess?”

Forbes grinned broadly. “You bloody well better believe it,” he boomed. “Put’m there myself.”

“Okay. I give up. Show me.”

Forbes pointed to one of the boots. “That boot,” he said. “Give it to me.”

Woody did. The boot was in bad shape. He’d wrenched off the heel, split the sole, and generally mutilated it trying to find something.

Forbes removed the shoe lace. He gave it to Woody. “Twist the aglet,” he said. “Clockwise.”

“The—what?”

“The aglet.” Forbes took hold of the metal tip of the shoelace. “This.”

“Oh
that’s
what they call that thingamajig,” Woody said. He took hold of it.

“Twist it,” Forbes instructed him. “A full turn. Then pull.”

Woody did. The aglet came loose in his fingers—and from the lace he pulled out a flexible length of saw-toothed wire hidden inside. He stared at it.

“It will cut through anything,” Forbes said proudly. “Including padlocks and steel bars. Given time. It’s made of very special steel wire so flexible it can be tied in knots. They use something like it in cranial surgery. Call it a Gigli saw.” He took the shoelace. “The inside of the lace is coated with a slick substance so the saw teeth won’t catch when you pull the wire out.”

Woody looked at the wire saw. He at once recognized its value. He was impressed. “And the compass?” he asked.

“You’ve got it in your hand,” Forbes beamed.

Woody stared at the aglet he’d pulled off the shoelace. “This?” he exclaimed incredulously.

“Right, mate. The aglet. The metal’s been magnetized. You balance the thing on a pin—where that little indentation is at the seam—and it shows north.”

“I’ll be damned.” Woody looked at the Sergeant Major. “You’re okay, buddy,” he said. “I’ll take one of each. Gift-wrapped!”

Forbes grinned hugely. “You got it, mate.” He grew sober. “And here’s wishing you’ll never have to make use of them.”

Amen, Woody thought. He’d keep that good thought. He had a hunch he could use every one he could get.

Tomorrow—first thing—he was off for Eisenach.

And his first stop on the
B-B Achse.

T
HE SPOT ON THE INSIDE
of his upper left arm where Doc Elliott had made the little scar itched like hell. He had to exert all his willpower not to scratch it. Doc had warned him not to touch it—or he would destroy the effect. It had, of course, been necessary to create the little wound. There had been no time to do a tattoo that would look even halfway seasoned. And he couldn’t be without the customary SS tattoo denoting his blood type if he were to masquerade as an
SS Hauptsturmführer
successfully. Somewhere along the line some bastard was sure to do a little checking. But it wasn’t unusual to find a more or less fresh scar. Most SS attempted to remove the telltale tattoo.

Woody stood across from No. 49 on Bebelgasse in Eisenach staring at the house that was the
B-B Achse Anlaufstelle
given him by Herbert Kotsch. He hadn’t quite gotten used to being a fugitive SS officer yet. Every stitch of clothing he wore—from the worn and mended socks on his feet to his
Wehrmacht
cap stripped of insignia on his head—had been procured from a PW camp, with slight alterations courtesy of Sergeant Major Henry Asquith Forbes. It had, of course, been counterindicated to clean the damned clothes before he put them on, so he’d shrugged into them, sweaty and smelly as they were. He felt thoroughly unclean, and his flesh still crawled when he thought of it. He wasn’t even sure the damned delousing powder the original owner had been dosed with in the PW camp had really done its job.

In his pocket he had papers that showed he was a discharged
Wehrmacht Obergefreiter,
a corporal named Hans Bauhacker from the Schleswig-Holstein town of Flensburg: a few personal papers, dog-eared photographs, and the like—taken from the same prisoner of war who had “contributed” the ID and the clothing—as well as a US Military Government travel permit allowing him to proceed to his brother’s farm near the village of Helmers some fifteen kilometers south of Eisenach, signed by the same fictitious captain in Blankenburg who had signed the pass for Herbert Kotsch. In keeping with the unwise practice of so many Nazis in hiding who couldn’t bear to discard their real identification papers—just in case—he had the ID card of one
SS Haupsturmführer
Fritz Diehl, the Flossenburg officer, taped to the instep of his right foot.

He was as ready to knock on the door of the
B-B Achse
as he’d ever be.

He started across the street—one
SS Hauptsturmführer
Fritz Diehl, concentration camp guard, war criminal, in search of escape, carrying the false papers of one
Obergefreiter
Bauhacker. It suddenly struck him with chilling effect that were he to be picked up by US military police he had no papers to prove that he was an American.

He was totally committed.

Eisenach, a town of some sixty thousand souls swelled by the unwanted influx of occupation troops, was the birthplace of Johann Sebastian Bach and lay at the foot of Wartburg Castle which Richard Wagner made famous when he used it as his setting for the contest of minnesingers in his opera
Tannhäuser.
That was all Woody knew about the town. It was probably as much as could be expected from any SS concentration camp guard.

Bebelgasse was in a seedy part of town. Woody kept his eyes on the building as he walked across the street. The windows were boarded up and on the front door a large sign had been tacked up. OFF LIMITS TO ALL US PERSONNEL, it read.

He stared at the sign, puzzled.

Then, suddenly, he knew.

A whorehouse! The B-B
Achse Anlaufstelle
at Bebelgasse 49 was a cathouse!

He chuckled to himself. It was a natural for a stop in an escape route chain. Various more or less furtive individuals, most of them male, coming and going at all hours. Couldn’t be more appropriate. And as a bonus—off limits to the enemy! He’d have to remember to tell Mort to put whorehouses high on the check list. He was sure no one would object.

He rang the bell. Presently he was aware of being scrutinized by an eye through a small peephole. The door opened. A plain-looking girl, her mousy hair drawn back in a tight bun, watched him with wary eyes.

“Yes?” she said.

“I would like to see the—person in charge,” he said.

The girl openly appraised him, obviously displeased with his seedy look. She stood aside. She pointed to an open door leading from the foyer. “Wait in there,” she said, adding “please” as an afterthought.

Woody walked through the door indicated by the girl. He found himself in a little waiting room maintained for the clients of the establishment. His eyes quickly took it in. Fake Louis XIV furniture covered in worn red plush. On the floor a threadbare immitation Oriental rug, the walk pattern from the door to the sofa that dominated the room plainly outlined. On the walls a reproduction of a painting of a voluptuous, reclining nude, framed in a badly chipped, ornate gold frame, and two framed pornographic Japanese prints drawn with amazing detail, one with its glass cracked. In one corner stood a large, carved chest and next to it a floor vase with dusty wax flowers; in another a lamp with a heavy pink shade—and over all hung the sweet, cloying scent of too much cheap perfume.

Gingerly he perched himself on the edge of the sofa. On a small table before it a few dog-eared magazines were spread out. He picked up one of them. It was a February German language issue of
Signal,
the biweekly Nazi propaganda magazine which in its heyday had been published in twenty languages. He wondered briefly if the whorehouse which now served as a stop on the
B-B Achse
had been one of the hundreds of brothels the Nazis had set up to serve their foreign workers so they wouldn’t pollute the establishments patronized by the upstanding, pure Aryan Germans. From
Bordell
to
Anlaufstelle
in one far-from-easy lesson, he thought wryly.

He flipped through the magazine, stopping to look at an article entitled, “The Seed of the Third World War.” He was just reading a quote by Henry Wallace, warning America against double-crossing the Russians, when a throaty female voice interrupted him.

“What can I do for you?”

He jumped up. In the doorway stood a woman. Her heavy makeup made it impossible to tell whether she was forty or sixty, although Woody thought nearer the latter. Large-bosomed, thick around the waist, she had long blond hair, obviously dyed and totally lackluster, which fell down over her shoulders. In contrast, her full lips and long, curved nails were shiny blood-red and made her look like a vampire with short teeth who had just come from a feast. She wore a soiled embroidered Japanese robe. Woody stared at her.

“I am Madame Zorina,” the woman said. “What can I do for you?” She smiled, revealing tobacco-stained teeth.

“I—I was hoping for a little relaxation,” Woody said. “I have just traveled a long way. All the way from the Harz.”

“Really,” Madame Zorina nodded, her expression unchanged. “I myself know the Harz well. A lovely place.”

“Yes, it is,” Woody agreed. “And so many interesting places to visit. I was so impressed with the caves. Especially the
Baumannshöhle.”

“It is impressive, isn’t it?” Madame Zorina said. “But personally I prefer the
Hermannshöhle.”

“And I the
Baumannshöhle,
Madame,” Woody said. He drew a sigh of relief. Kotsch had given him the right dope after all.

The woman turned and closed the door to the foyer. She inspected Woody.

“Who are you?” she asked.

Woody drew himself up. For a second he debated with himself if he should click his heels. He decided against it. No need to overdo it.

“I am
Hauptsturmführer
Fritz Diehl,” he said. “I was sent here by
Herr Oberst
Herbert Kotsch.”

Zorina nodded. She seemed suddenly interested. Pleased. Woody picked up on it. He wondered why.

“Your papers.” She held out her hand. Woody gave her the papers purloined from the
Wehrmacht
corporal PW, Hans Bauhacker, and his travel permit. Zorina looked them over.

“Your papers are excellent,” she said. “One would not know they are not genuine.” She glanced at the AMG travel permit. “Kotsch is an idiot,” she mumbled. “He is using that Johnson name too often. Only four days . . .” She stopped. It was all Woody could do not to urge her to go on. Four days ago. Eva?

“Your real papers, you still have them?” Zorina asked.

Woody nodded.

“Let me have them.”

He sat down on the sofa. He took off his right boot and sock and removed the ID card from his instep. He gave it to the woman. She merely glanced at it.

“You are a fool, Diehl,” she said matter-of-factly. “Like so many of you. We will get rid of this. Fritz Diehl must no longer exist.”