Eva (38 page)

He had been outraged at the length of time
Frau
Hitler had been forced to wait at the shed. Placing her in that kind of dangerous situation was inexcusable. The agent at the
Anlaufstelle
would be held to account; he would see to that personally.

Ahead he could see the long, narrow building that housed the ropewalk. Although several buildings on the street were damaged, some totally in ruins, the rope manufacturing plant seemed relatively untouched by the shelling. He would get the necessary information from the agent in charge and be on his way, following his wards.

He was about to cross the street when he saw a motorcycle with a young man and woman drive up and come to a halt. He stopped. He watched. The young man inspected the sign on the old red-brick building. He and the woman dismounted and, wheeling his bike, the young man led the girl into the plant yard.

Strelitz frowned. Instinctively he sensed that the two young people were
Achse
travelers. Who were they? They were very close behind
Frau
Hitler and her escort. He knew that when Eva left the Harz hideout there had been no one traveling the escape route behind her at least not within a three-day span. How had
this
couple caught up? And more important,
why?
He felt the familiar tense alertness grow in him. With their own transportation, the couple might easily overtake
Frau
Hitler. At the next
Anflaufstelle.
Is that what they were after? If so, why? He had best find out as much as he could about the young couple. Determine if they might possibly be a threat. He was suspicious. Well and good. It was his business to be. The Führer, himself, had charged him so. It was, of course, possible that the young man was at the plant on business other than the
Achse.
Employment, for instance. But he did not believe it. Even if he did, he would still have to check him out. Thoroughly.

Quickly he decided on his course of action. He would wait. Let the newcomers get settled in, and then confront the agent.

He looked around. He needed a reason for hanging around. Almost directly across from the plant a building lay in ruins with bricks and broken masonry in jumbled piles. He took off his jacket and began to stack the bricks from a crumbled wall. He had a perfect view of the plant gate while he worked.

Twenty minutes he thought. He would wait twenty minutes before going in. He had no idea what would ensue. All he knew was—he could handle it.

Heinz Ludwig sneaked another look at the girl who had given her name as Ilse, as he conducted the newly arrived travelers through the ropery to the room in the back. She was a real
Muckerl
—a real looker—he thought admiringly. Even better looking than the young woman who had just left. Interesting, he mused. Two women. One immediately after the other. The only two he had processed at his stop.

In the room Woody turned to him. “
Herr
Ludwig,” he said in a low, confidential voice. “A word with you, if you please.” As Ilse, looking pale and exhausted, lay down on one of the beds, Woody took Ludwig aside. He tried to size the man up. How best to get the information he wanted without arousing suspicion.

“
Herr
Ludwig,” he said, “when do you think we can be on our way?”

“As early as tomorrow,” Ludwig said. “You will be traveling by truck. It leaves the area at half past eight in the morning.”

“That would indeed be excellent,
Herr
Ludwig,” Woody said. “But we have our own transportation. A motorcycle. All we need is to have our papers fixed up, a little gasoline—and the necessary information to take us to the next
Anlaufstelle
by tonight.” He lowered his voice. He gave a quick glance toward the resting Ilse. “You must understand,
Herr
Ludwig,” he whispered conspiratorially. “It is not easy to have to travel with a woman. She gets tired. And impatient at the same time. Like a woman, she cannot wait. Everything must turn around
her
wishes. I am sure you understand.” He sighed, much put upon. “I have been given responsibility for her. And I should very much like to get her to our destination as quickly as possible. That is what she demands. And I want that, too, before she . . .” He shrugged eloquently. “I should like to leave here as soon as possible,
Herr
Ludwig. I am certain
you
can arrange it.”

Ludwig frowned. He would have liked to keep the good-looking woman around. At least for the night. One never knew. He nodded slowly. “It will be arranged,” he said.

Woody beamed at him. “I am grateful,
Herr
Ludwig. It
is
a bother, having to drag a woman along. I do not know why I was so singled out.”

“If it is any consolation,
Herr
Bauhacker,” Ludwig smiled thinly at him. “You are not the only one.”

Woody looked at him in surprise. “
Wirklich!”
he exclaimed. “Really! How extraordinary. I cannot for the life of me think of
any
woman who would need to avail herself of the—the special travel accommodations of the
Achse.
Are you certain you are not mistaken?”

“Of course,” Ludwig said shortly, a hint of offense in his voice. “There was another couple. They only just left a couple of hours ago.”

Woody felt his heart skip a beat. Eva! He grinned crookedly at Ludwig. “I wish the poor dolt good luck,” he said fervently. “I know what he must have to put up with.” He looked earnestly at Ludwig. “I am grateful,” he said. “We shall wait here for our papers.”

Ludwig nodded. “It will take an hour,” he said. “Perhaps two. It will be no trouble.”

He left.

In the ruins outside, opposite the plant,
SS Sturmbannführer
Oskar Strelitz looked at his watch. Twenty minutes.

He placed the brick he held in his hand on a stack. He put on his jacket and briskly walked across the street to
Seilerei Rademacher.

Plant manager Heinz Ludwig stared at the grim, imposing figure of a man towering over him.

“It is impossible,” he said. “In no way can I do what you ask. I do not have the authority. Only in emergency . . .”

“I strongly suggest you take another look at
my
authority,” Strelitz interrupted him harshly. “I am certain you recognize the signature on it.”

Ludwig obediently looked at the papers the man, identified in them as
SS Sturmbannführer
Oskar Strelitz, had given to him. On special mission for the Führer, Adolf Hitler, he read. Authority not to be questioned. Full cooperation by all officials demanded. No exceptions. He stared at the signature. He nodded.

“The Führer is dead,” he said tonelessly.

“As dead as you will be,
Herr
Ludwig,” Strelitz said quietly, “if you do not at once comply with my orders.” He glared icily at the manager. “Remember,
Herr
Ludwig. The
Brüderschaft
— the Brotherhood—is very much alive. They fully back the Führer’s commands. They will not look kindly on any—obstruction.”

Ludwig swallowed. “Very well,” he agreed “I will make contact with officials of the
Verteilungsstab.
They will make some calls.” He handed the papers back to Strelitz. “I will get you your information.”

The cool water soothed the lacerations on Woody’s palms, caused by his grip on the wire saw. Ilse looked concerned as she gently bathed the bloody crusts, soaking them off.

“I’ll be okay,” Woody said. The hands hurt like hell. And gripping the damned handlebars on the motorbike hadn’t exactly been therapeutic. If only the cuts didn’t get infected.

He glanced at his watch. It had been better than two and a half hours since Ludwig left them. Where the hell was the bastard?

Suddenly the door to the room opened. A stranger—a tall, sturdy man around forty—entered, followed by a cowed-looking Ludwig.

Without a word or a glance at the two people standing at the washstand, the stranger marched to the only table in the room. Woody watched him. Obviously a military man, he thought. Another traveler? Not the way he was taking charge. Who then? What the hell was up? The hackles on the back of his neck itched. Trouble!

The man sat down at the table. Importantly he placed some papers before him. Woody thought he recognized his own among them. He felt Ilse grow rigid beside him.

The stranger turned toward him and fixed him with an icy stare. He pointed to a spot in front of the table. “
Antreten!”
he barked.

Woody bristled. He quickly caught himself. He was in
their
ballpark. He’d better play
their
game. He walked to the indicated spot and snapped to attention. “
Zu Befehl!”
he sang out. “At your orders!”

Strelitz appraised him overtly. Who was this young man? he wondered coldly. From the answers to his inquiries about him and the girl with him he had already made up his mind that his suspicions about them were fully justified. Information had come back from the
Anlaufstellen
at Eisenach, Coburg, Neustadt, and Nördlingen. For some reason he had been informed that prior to the stop at the Harz nothing was available. It had not been needed.

He let his arctic eyes bore into the young man who stood stiffly before him.

“I am
SS Sturmbannführer
Strelitz,” he rasped. “I am here to ask you some questions. I am empowered to do so.” He held a piece of paper out toward Woody. “Read this.”

Woody took the paper. He prayed his hands would not shake. He read. The document was an authorization giving
Sturmbannführer
Oskar Strelitz almost unlimited powers.

“You are familiar with the Führer’s signature, no doubt,” Strelitz said. It was a statement rather than a question.

Woody looked at the scrawl at the bottom of the page. He had no idea what Hitler’s signature looked like. He stared at it.

If that was it, he thought, it sure fit. It was as twisted as the man himself.

“Yes,
Herr Sturmbannführer,”
he said, trying to make his voice sound respectful. “Thank you,
Herr Sturmbannführer.”

For a moment Strelitz scowled at him in silence. Woody felt creeping over him the natural, numbing uneasiness common to everyone being questioned by someone in authority. He fought against it. He knew how damaging a guilty appearance could be in an interrogation. Interrogation? If this was to be an interrogation, he was on the wrong side of the table, dammit!

“Your name?” Strelitz suddenly snapped. “Your real name?”

Woody drew himself up. “Bauhacker, Hans,” he answered smartly. “
Obergefreiter.
796822.”

His interrogator’s cold eyes held him captive. “Look behind you,” he said evenly.

Woody turned to look. At the door stood Heinz Ludwig—a Luger pistol in his hand, pointed straight at Woody.

“The next lie you tell . . .” Strelitz’s voice whipped through the room like an icy gust of wind. “The next lie—will be your last!”

W
OODY STRUGGLED TO STAY CALM.
Despite his efforts, he felt his pulse quicken. His mouth was suddenly dry and his palms felt clammy. He was aware of a tiny muscle at the corner of one eye beginning to twitch. He knew he was exhibiting all the familiar telltale signs of a subject who has something to hide. He could not help it. And he was certain the minute, involuntary signals were not lost on his interrogator. The man was obviously a professional. Good, he thought. His actions would be predictable—up to a point. Images of the countless interrogations he had conducted himself flashed across his mind. It struck him that this time he had to
suppress
the little giveaway signs, not
detect
them. He set his mind in the unwonted role. He knew what he had to do. Give his answers as quickly as he could. Stick as close to the truth as possible. That way he would sound most convincing and there would be less of a chance to get caught in contradictions; less chance to be trapped in Sir Walter Scott’s tangled web of deception. He met the steady gaze of
SS Sturmbannführer
Strelitz. He was ready.