Sleeper Agent (22 page)

Brigadeführer Arnold himself accompanied Rudi to the Hermann Göring Strasse garages.

Two SS guards armed with Schmeisser machine pistols were waiting for them at the garage exit. Between them stood a small old man clad in a stripped, threadbare uniform.

Arnold addressed one of the guards. “Is this the man?” he asked crisply.

“
Jawohl,
Herr Brigadeführer.” The guard snapped to attention.

Arnold nodded. He turned to the old man. “Name?”

“Fischbein,” the man answered, his voice shaking. “Josef Fischbein.”

“What is your
Beruf
—your occupation?”

“Master engraver.”

Again Arnold nodded. “Come with me.”

Arnold walked the old man the few steps over to Rudi. The man stared at the young officer. Arnold watched him closely. “You know this man?” he asked. There was a sardonic taint to his voice.

The old man nodded. “
Ja.”

“You have seen him before?”

“
Nein.”

“How do you know him then?”

The old man licked his thin lips. “I . . . I worked on his passport. A Danish passport. At the SS Department of Forged Documents.”

“Anyone else work on that document?”

“No.”

Arnold contemplated the man for a brief moment “You did an excellent job, Herr Fischbein,” he said. “We are not ungrateful.” He nodded toward the debris-filled street before them. “You are free to go,” he said. He smiled. “
Hals- und Beinbruch!”
he said. “May you break your neck and leg!” It was the usual German good-luck wish.

The old man stared wide-eyed at Arnold. Slowly he edged toward the street. He began to walk away, glancing fearfully back over his shoulder. Then he started a shuffling run.

Rudi did not even hear the staccato bursts of fire from the Schmeissers of the two SS guards that raked across the old man’s back, cutting him down and slamming him into the gutter of Hermann Göring Strasse to lie in an oddly sprawling heap of death. . . .

Rudi was staring at the city. The sight of the blazing city lying before him was like a numbing physical blow. Berlin was dying.

Under savage artillery bombardment by the Red Army forces the city was a holocaust. Blood-red fingers of flame licked up toward the night sky, crisscrossed by a latticework of desperately probing searchlights. Ground-shaking explosions, the roar of blazing fires, the crashing of scattered masonry, the wails of fire engines and ambulances all vied with one another in their assault upon his ears.

Rudi felt his confidence drain from him. Suddenly the stirring words he’d read in the Führer’s
Mein Kampf
rang out with clarion purity in his mind. “A holy fire has been lighted and out of its flames will rise the sword which will regain the freedom and mastery of the Germanic Siegfried, and the eternal life of the German nation!”

Fire, he thought. It can destroy. And it can purify. He clenched his fists. The sword of Germany
would
be forged, ready to strike! Adolf Hitler had written
Mein Kempf
for the German people. Martin Bormann would write the sequel!

Arnold came up to him. He shook his hand. “
Sieg heill”
he said quietly, his eyes grave.

“
Sieg heil!”
Rudi answered. Quickly he ducked from the entrance, ran across the rubble-strewn street, and disappeared among the splintered trees of the Tiergarten park. Operation KOKON had begun.

Major Herbert Lee, CO of CIC Detachment 212, was fretfully preoccupied as he marched across the empty lot between the two buildings occupied by Corps CP in the little town of Viechtacht. He was hardly aware of Tom walking silently beside him.

The morning was overcast, and a fine sleety snow was falling, melting almost at once on the wet, soggy ground.

He huddled down in his ample mackinaw and hurried along a little faster.

Corps had moved to Viechtacht the day before in the morning. They had barely become operational when General Patton had arrived. Corps was to move at once on Linz, Salzburg and Berchtesgaden. New areas to be considered by the CIC.

And then there was the matter of General Koeltz and the goddamned Werewolves!

The French general and his staff would be showing up at Corps any time now. Later in the day General Koeltz was scheduled to tap four officers for the Legion of Honor, two one-star generals and two bird colonels. Right in the empty lot he was even now trudging through.

And only yesterday those Werewolf “warning” circulars had been found tacked up on fences and doors in town. Dated “25. 4. 45” and addressed to “all traitors and collaborators,” the damned things warned them not to display the white flags of submission, not to aid the enemy, but to continue to destroy him. “We shall punish every traitor and his entire family!” the proclamation threatened. Shit! Half the town had to be sleeping in dirty sheets—judging from the amount of laundry hanging out the windows.

“
Unser Rache ist tödlich!
—Our revenge is deadly!” the warning promised. It was signed, “
Der Werwolf.”

He didn’t give a damn whether the Werewolves were a well-trained terrorist guerrilla organization or a bunch of fanatic crackpots with a corny radio program. A bullet fired by a nut is just as lethal.

He grimaced involuntarily. It would be one hell of a mess, he thought, if a visiting French general was gunned down. In his, Herbert Wadsworth Lee’s, own territory! But how in hell was he supposed to foul the pattern of that kind of thrust? He pushed on, deep in His glum thoughts.

Tom walked silently beside his CO. He had brought Larry to the aid station yesterday. Doc Elliott had jeeped over to take a look at him. It was doubtful that Larry would ever regain the full use of his hands. Unless they performed a minor miracle back in the States.

He felt depressed and angry. More than ever he wanted to follow through with the case of the Sleeper Agent operation—and KOKON.

He had spent hours with Lee going over the information gained from the few pieces of scorched paper saved by Larry. He had requested a TDY assigning him to the Sleeper case exclusively. The approval of the Assistant Chief of Staff, G-2, Colonel Streeter, was necessary. He and Lee were on their way to see him so that Tom could present his case in person.

He was well aware of his feeling of depression. He tried to shake it. He needed to be at his best if he hoped to persuade the AC of S to grant his request. It was not easy. It wasn’t only Larry and Winkler that bothered him. It was also the letter from Julie that had been waiting for him at Corps.

Damn it!

“I do so hope you understand,” she’d written. Like hell,he did. “My friend is a captain stationed in Washington. He has a bad back, poor dear, and he won’t be able to go overseas,” Julie had explained. “He comes from a very good American family.”

And she had hastened to reassure him: “We are not in any hurry to get married, you understand. Our divorce can wait, Tom. It can wait till any time you say. I certainly don’t want to worry you now. I’m sure you have enough on your mind. I am sorry, Tom. . . .”

There was more. Much more. It all swam together in his mind. It was too new. He could not yet sort out his emotions. He made a conscious effort to snap out of his doldrums. His job now was KOKON.

Colonel Streeter listened without interruption as Tom briefly chronicled the events and investigations leading up to the discovery of the Sleeper Agent dossier of one Rudolf Kessler, code name Rudi A-27.

Tom was summing up. “Sir, Schloss Ehrenstein was a school for Sleeper Agents to be placed in foreign countries,” he said. “Including the United States. There is no way of knowing how many were actually graduated. We only know a part of the personal history of one such agent, Rudi A-27. We know
his
assignment to be the States. We know some of his past history, some of his training.” He paused.

Streeter remained silent. With a slight frown he was watching the young CIC agent.

Tom continued. “It all fits, sir. The Luftwaffe project FENIX, on future war. The Sleeper Agent program. It all points to some comeback plan for Nazi Germany. Only the meaning of KOKON is still unknown. I believe it to be part of the master plan.”

He looked at Streeter earnestly. “I strongly feel that Rudi A-27 must be tracked down and captured. I am certain he is still here in the ETO. The dossier entry of his Readiness Test Completion was dated less than two weeks ago. If we can get him, he can reveal the scope and the operational procedures of the entire Nazi Sleeper Agent project. He may lead us to others, other Sleepers, perhaps already in the States. The FBI can follow through.”

He looked firmly at the colonel. “Sir. Rudi A-27
must
be captured. He is our key. We cannot allow an unknown number of enemy agents to infiltrate the United States and settle down. If we do, we may
end
the war—but we will not have
won
it!”

He stood erect. “With the approval of Major Lee, I request exclusive assignment to the case of the Sleeper Agent and KOKON.”

Streeter sat a moment in silent throught, studying Tom standing before him. He looked at Major Lee, then back to Tom. “Wait outside,” he said.

Tom walked over to a window in the hall outside Streeter’s office. He looked out. It had stopped snowing. He tried to concentrate on the meeting with the G-2. But other thoughts intruded. Julie . . . When had he stopped loving her? Or had he? He could not pin it down. And she?

He had loved her. Deeply.

He’d spent hours the night before, after getting his “Dear John” letter—why “Dear John"? Why not “Dear Tom"?—looking through the earlier letters he’d received from Julie and kept. They seemed unreal now. . . .

He was jolted from his morose thoughts when the door to Colonel Streeter’s office opened and Major Lee came out into the hall.

Tom walked up to him. “Well?” he asked.

Lee looked at him. “It’s no go, Tom,” he said soberly.

Tom felt angry frustration well up in him. “Why the hell not?” he exploded. “
Somebody’d
better get on it, dammit!”

“Easy, Tom,” Lee said. “Easy does it.”

“Sure, easy does it!” Tom shot back bitterly. “But haven’t you noticed that when easy does it someone always has to do it over again? Can we afford that?”

“Sorry, Tom.” Lee sounded genuinely regretful. “I sure as hell can’t put the ball in play if the coach says no. Streeter feels there are too damned many . . . eh . . . unorthodox procedures involved. There is no way.” He started to walk away.

Tom’s mind raced. There
was
a way. He made his decision. “Herb!” he called. “Hold it a minute.”

Lee stopped. He turned to Tom.

“I think I have a way, Herb,” Tom said quietly.

Lee walked up to him. He shook his head. “I know that convoluted noodle of yours works in strange and mysterious ways to perform its wonders,” he said. “But
this
I’ve gotta hear!”

“I’ll take it,” Tom said.

Lee looked nonplused. “Take what?”

“Remember that field commission you offered me a while back? Okay. I’ll take it!”

Lee stared at him in astonishment. “Yeah,” he said. “I remember. You turned it down. You didn’t like the required three-year hitch that went with it”

“That’s right.”

Lee looked at the CIC agent with sudden interest. “Say, what the hell
is
your rank, anyway?”

“Staff sergeant.”

Lee nodded.

“Here’s what I want you to do, Herb.” Tom spoke urgently. “Go back to Streeter. Tell him I’ve accepted a field commission, effective at once. It’s Corps policy to give a two-week furlough. I’ll take it. Now. What I do with it is my own damn affair, right? I can be as
unorthodox
as I damned well please! Okay. I need someone along. I know I can’t get another CIC partner. But how about letting me have that MP sergeant that worked the Steinmetz stakeout in Bayreuth? Sergeant Rosenfeld? Just for the two lousy weeks? Okay? Herb, I
know
I can track that Sleeper bastard down!”

Lee was staring at him. He slowly shook his head. “Jesus!” he said. “You’re really out to get that poor SOB.”

Tom had a fleeting mind’s-eye vision of the Steinmetz girl’s bloated body hanging on the cold cell wall. Of Sergeant Winkler’s mangled hands and face. Of Larry. “Yes,” he said.

“You are nuts,” Lee observed solemnly.

“It’ll work.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Come on, Herb!” Tom pleaded. “Do it!”

“I still think you’re nuts,” Lee said. “But—” He shrugged. “Well, I’ll see what I can do.” He sounded dubious. He started toward the door to the office of the AC of S, G-2.

Tom stopped him. “Herb,” he said. “Get it! Don’t be too damned catmatic.”

Lee looked at him suspiciously. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“What? Catmatic?”

“Yeah. Catmatic.”

Tom grinned. “I thought you knew. It’s the opposite of dogmatic. Pussyfooting around! Don’t pussyfoot, Herb.
Go get it!"

Lee shook himself in thorough exasperation. “For Christ’s sake,” he muttered as he entered Streeter’s office.

Tom took a deep breath. It was done. Three years. Three more years of looking at the Bavarian landscape. It
was
beautiful. But even steak and ice cream can get monotonous. Hell, he’d stick it out. He had nothing to go home to.

His decision made, he felt a sense of loss. Of relief. Of excitement. . . .

Major Lee emerged from the office of the G-2. “Streeter says it’s one hell of an unorthodox caper.” He grinned. “But you got it,
Lieutenant
Jaeger!”

Tom at once started down the hall. “Come on, Herb!” he called. “Let’s get those orders cut!”

The two men walked rapidly, purposefully away. The hunt for Rudi A-27 had begun. The hunt for KOKON. . . .

8

Sergeant David Rosenfeld brought his jeep to an impressively gravel-sliding stop in the walled courtyard at the main entrance to Schloss Ehrenstein. He had enjoyed the early morning ride up to the castle, and especially being waved through the checkpoints manned by troops from the Engineer outfit billeted at the estate, when the guards were shown the CIC agent’s ID.

He felt important. Excited. After his piss-poor performance at that Steinmetz stakeout in Bayreuth, the last thing in the world he’d have bet on was to be assigned to work as the CIC agent’s partner! By request, no less! He looked expectantly at Tom, sitting next to him.

Tom nodded toward a row of trucks and jeeps parked at the courtyard wall. Next to one of the jeeps stood a soldier. Despite the raw overcast morning, he was clad only in his OD shorts and undershirt. He was busily brushing his teeth from a canteen cup. The jeep motor was idling, the hood was up, and the soldier’s steel helmet, filled with water, was set on the engine block. White steam curled up from it into the crisp, cool, morning air, like the contented breath of the purring machine.

“Ask him where we can find the lieutenant,” Tom said.

“Yes, sir!”

Rosenfeld jumped smartly from the jeep and strode purposefully toward the GI engrossed in his morning ablutions.

Tom stayed in the jeep. He wanted to think undisturbed for a few moments. Everything had happened so damned fast. His field commission. He savored the thought. He didn’t feel one iota different. Certainly he did not look any different. His uniform still was bare of any insignia of rank, except for the two officer’s US emblems on his collar tabs. Exactly as he’d worn them ever since he splashed ashore at Omaha Beach, a T5.

And now he was hunting KOKON. He had exactly two weeks to track down a quarry as elusive as a lone bedbug in a sleeping bag. He had not one damned clue where to begin. Except at Schloss Ehrenstein. And that place had been thoroughly cleaned out

There was only one remote possibility: the looters. The German farmers who had ransacked the estate. They might still have some of their plunder in their possession. It might—just might—contain a lead. Any lead.

But he’d need whatever information the engineer officer would be able to give him. Or the Peukert woman. He had to have some starting point. He couldn’t interrogate every damned farmer in Bavaria. Not in two weeks.

He glanced towards his young companion. The man had already once demonstrated that he knew how to use his eyes. He sure could use a second pair. He hoped he’d come through for him.

Rosenfeld walked briskly up to the GI at the jeep. “Where can I find your CO, soldier?” he demanded.

The GI looked him over out of the corner of his eye.

“ ’oo ‘onts ’o ’ow? he grunted through his foaming toothbrush.

“CIC!” Rosenfeld snapped importantly.

The soldier slowly removed his toothbrush from his mouth. He rinsed it out in his canteen cup and threw the dirty water on the ground. He dipped the cup into the steaming water in the helmet on the engine block, cautiously took a mouthful and noisily swished it around in his mouth. He spat the toothpaste-clouded water onto the ground and nodded toward the main entrance. “The lootenant’s probably in the orderly room, Mac. Second door on your right. You can’t miss it.”

“Thank you, soldier,” Rosenfeld acknowledged. “Second door on the right.” He turned smartly on his heel and marched back to Tom. Vaguely he felt that his first act as the partner of a CIC agent hadn’t been overly auspicious.

“The Peukert dame?” The Engineer lieutenant shook his head. “You’re SOL again, my friend!” He grinned. “You ruffled her feathers too roughly. She flew the coop day after you pulled that dog trick on her.”

“What do you know about the locals that looted the castle?”

“Not a damned thing,” the officer answered. “Except they did a hell of a job. And the Peukert dame was always bitching about them.”

He thought for a moment. “Wait a minute,” he said. ‘I do remember one name. Some farmer. The Peukert dame was especially vitriolic about him. Guess he liberated something she’d had her eye on herself.”

He frowned. “Let me think. . . . Burg-something . . . Burghower. Holier. Hauser. Burghauser. That’s it. Anton Burghauser. He’s supposed to have a farm a couple or three miles from the estate. Near the village of Worth. On the road to Cham.”

It was 0837 hours when the jeep with Tom and Sergeant Rosenfeld screeched to a stop in the barnyard of the Burghauser farm, barely missing a barrel-bodied manure wagon. Tom had to put his hand on the dashboard and brace himself to keep from going through the windshield.

He glanced at Rosenfeld. He was about to make a caustic remark. He caught himself. The young soldier was obviously enjoying himself. Everything he did was done with an abundance of exuberance. Even stopping a jeep. It would be foolish to dampen his enthusiasm. It might pay off.

Both men jumped from the jeep, and Tom flung open the door to the
Bauernstube.

The farmer and his family were having their mid-morning boiled potatoes dipped in hot oil. Startled, they looked up from their frugal meal and stared at the Americans. Three of them. The farmer. An older woman. A teenage girl.

Frowning Tom looked from one to the other. His first subjects in the hunt for KOKON. He was acutely aware of the time limitation imposed upon him. Two lousy weeks. He had no time to waste on lengthy interrogations. He had to have his answers at once. He could not afford to handle anyone with kid gloves. The stakes were too high. Each investigation had to be played by ear. On the spur of the moment he would have to come up with the quickest, most efficient way to break his suspects—whatever the method. He had to trick them. Confuse them. Menace them. Trap them. . . . And he couldn’t let them see the trap until they tripped over the cheese.

He glanced at the three Germans. Quickly he sized them up. Ceremoniously he pulled a notebook from his pocket and made a show of consulting it. He looked up at the farmer. “You are Anton Burghauser?” He snapped the question at the man, his voice cold and harsh.

“Yes.”

Tom gave an impersonal nod toward the two women. “Your wife? Your daughter?”

“Yes.”

Tom pointed an imperious finger at Burghauser. Sharply he beckoned him. “You! Come with me!” He flung the words at the man. “You are under arrest!”

The farmer’s leathery face visibly paled.

The two women gasped. They looked stricken. Instinctively they drew together, clinging to each other, staring at Tom in bleak terror.

Burghauser slowly rose to his feet “Arrest?” he repeated heavily. “But why?”

“Possession of US Army property,” Tom shot at him. “Let’s go!”

“But . . . I do not have any of your army’s property,” the man said in bewilderment. He shook his head. “Believe me. Nothing. There is a mistake.”

Tom took a deliberate step toward the man. He glowered angrily at him. “Are you accusing me of making a mistake?” His voice was dangerous.

The farmer drew back. “No. No. . . I meant—”

“You have plunder, stolen from Schloss Ehrenstein on your premises,” Tom lashed out. “Effects that belonged to the Waffen SS. Now US Army property! According to international law. Do you deny it?”

He had been watching the women closely. He saw them give each other a quick terror-stricken look.

Burghauser’s weather-textured face looked ashen but grim. “I have nothing of such things here,” he said.

Irritably Tom again looked in his notebook.

“You are lying,” he said icily. “You have been denounced by one of your neighbors as a criminal looter.” He fixed the man with razor eyes. “Do you deny it?”

Out of the corner of his eye he saw the women react. It must have been a familiar story to them. Denunciation-German against German—was commonplace in the glorious Nazi Reich.

“It is a lie,” Burghauser stated.

Again Tom looked in his notebook. He seemed exasperated. “Your accuser is a Frau Peukert,” he informed the farmer. “She declares that you stole some items of value from the castle.”

The impact of the Peukert woman’s name on the two women was obvious. Burghauser said nothing.

“Where is the loot?” Tom demanded brusquely.

“There is nothing here.”

For a moment Tom scowled at the man. Then he shrugged, as if writing him off. He snapped his notebook shut and put it away. “Sergeant!” he called.

Rosenfeld had watched the scene with fascination. He had seen the CIC agent in action before, and he recognized the bluff at once. But he knew they had no concrete information about any loot, only general assumption. Would it work? He was dying to find out. He was dying to get into the act Smartly he stepped up to Tom. “Yes, sir.”

Tom lowered his voice. “Take the old man outside,” he said. “Walk him around the farm.”

“Okay.”

“Keep your eyes open. Look around.”

“Okay. What am I looking for?”

“Hopefully you’ll know when you see it”

Rosenfeld grinned. “Got you!”

“Keep him covered. Don’t let him pull anything.”

“He won’t get a chance to try.”

“This is important Five minutes after you get out there, fire one shot.”

Rosenfeld’s mouth dropped open for an instant. “A . . .
shot?"

“A shot”

“What’ll I shoot at?”

“I don’t give a damn. You can try to hit Berlin if you like. Just don’t hurt the old man.”

“Okay. Got you.”

“Five minutes.”

Tom turned toward Burghauser. Aloud he ordered, “Take him away.”

Rosenfeld drew his .45. He tried to act and look as grim and cold as Tom. Brusquely he gun-gestured to the farmer. “Get going!” he commanded. “Outside! Move it!”

Tom walked up to the two women. He looked at them with a dark, penetrating scowl. They shrank away from him.

He consulted his watch. “Your husband has exactly ten minutes to show the sergeant where he has hidden the loot. Ten minutes. If he does not . . .” He shrugged eloquently. “We do not show consideration for people who lie to us, Frau Burghauser!”

He looked from mother to daughter. Once more he glanced at his watch.

“
Nine
minutes, Frau Burghauser, for your husband to talk. Or . . . for you.” He pulled one of the chairs away from the table and sat down, leaning his arms over the back. He stared relentlessly at the two women. He said nothing.

The hour-long seconds ticked by. The girl bit her lips. She was perhaps sixteen. Seventeen. Blond braids were put up in spirals over her ears. Her face was round, and her sturdy body had not quite lost its baby fat She looked at her mother with big frightened eyes. “Mutti?” she whispered.

Her mother tightened her protective embrace around the girl. She said nothing.

Time oozed on. Tom shifted on his chair. It creaked. It was the only sound. Minutes . . . The girl began to tremble slightly.

Tom watched her. He was acutely aware of his own tenseness. The suspense centered in the watch on his wrist He felt himself waiting for the shot How much more heavily the pressure must weigh on them, he thought. His eyes went to the young girl again. The blouse around her armpits was wet with the sweat of fear. He felt compassion for her. He did not enjoy waging war against work-worn women and pigtailed girls still covered with baby fat.

He had no choice. Did he? He had to go by a different set of values. This time. When
does
the end justify the means? Ever?

He glanced at his watch. The women’s eyes were glued to his gesture. He said nothing. The waiting had become oppressive.

Suddenly a shot rang out in the farmyard.

The girl gave a startled scream. She wrenched her eyes wide open. She turned them full on Tom in unbelieving horror. She gave a wretched little cry and buried her head in her mother’s bosom. She sobbed.

Tom rose deliberately. He stood—dark, icy, foreboding—before them. He beckoned to the mother. “You!” he said, steel in his voice. “Come with me!”

The young girl clung to her mother in anguished desperation. She turned her plump, tear-streaked child’s face toward Tom. “
Nein!”
she wailed. “
Nein! Nicht
Mutti!—Not Mother!” She gulped her breath between sobs. “
ES
war ja nur
. . . a
Fotzhobl!”
she cried accusingly. “
Nur a Fotzhobl—
only a
Fotzhobl.”

What the hell is a
Fotzhobl?
Tom thought Then the familiar surge of excitement swept through him. He had no idea what a
Fotzhobl
was. The Bavarian dialect contained a flood of words that bore no relation to German. But whatever it was, it came from Schloss Ehrenstein.

“Get it!” he snapped. “Now!”

The girl ran to a large ornately carved cupboard. As soon as she let go of her mother, the woman sank down on a chair. She sat immobile, staring vacuously into space. The girl tore open a drawer. Desperately she rummaged around . . . and came up with a small package wrapped in old newspaper.

She ran to Tom and handed it to him. “It is all we took,” she sobbed. “All. That horrid woman at the castle wanted it when we found it But Vati would not give it to her. It is a gift for Werner. My brother. When he comes back from Russia.” Abruptly she ran to her mother. She put her arms around her and hugged her tightly. She cried softly.

Tom looked at the package in his hand. A
Fotzhobl. . . .
He tore the paper away. Inside was a cardboard box. He opened it. In it, on a piece of yellow pressed cotton, lay a large gleaming mouth organ. A fine Hohner harmonica!

Tom had to fight down his impulse to hurl the shiny thing to the floor in his disappointment Why the hell did those damned Bavarians have to make up their own fucking words? Why couldn’t they call a harmonica a goddamned
Mundharmonika
like the rest of the Germans? A
Fotzhobl!
Shit!

He walked over to the women. “What else did you take from Schloss Ehrenstein?” he asked.

The girl looked up at him. There was hate in her eyes. And fear. He already knew her answer. She shook her head. “Nothing.”