Sleeper Agent (29 page)

He wiped the knife blade on his pants. The finger would have to come off. It was as simple as that. It would be less of a handicap to cope with a stump than with a painful broken finger done up in a damned awkward splint. He lifted the knife. He clenched his jaws. Hard.

What the devil; the loss of a finger is no big deal. The knife was poised.

He stopped. Suddenly he hurled the knife onto the ground with an angry oath. He could not do it.

A missing finger was a mark of identification no one could overlook! He could not saddle himself with that kind of handicap. Not he. He looked closely at his finger. He would
have
to set it. Splint it. Bandage it.

He crawled into the ditch and rolled the body of the border guard onto its back. He searched.

A pencil. It would do as a splint. The man had a handkerchief, but it was soiled. It would only cause infection. A piece of his shirt . . .

He began to pull at the dead man’s clothing. In the back pocket of his pants was a bulge. He felt for it and brought out a partial roll of toilet paper. He grinned.

Border-patrolling obviously did not afford all the comforts of home.

He unrolled about five feet of the paper. It was the closest he could come to sterility. He used part of the clean paper to cleanse the wound. It hurt like hell. But he knew the worst was yet to come.

He wiped the pencil as clean as he could. He placed it and the roll of toilet paper within easy reach. He frowned. Something else was needed. He looked at the dead man again. He picked up the soiled handkerchief—and again discarded it.

He looked at the man’s feet He wore heavy boots laced with long laces. He untied one of the laces and laid it next to the pencil-stub splint and toilet-paper bandage.

He took a deep breath. He grabbed hold of the dangling finger. He pulled.

He was unaware of the sharp little cry that escaped his throat. His eyes burned with the tears of raw agony, and a searing pain shot fire through his whole body. But he felt the broken bone snap together. The grating sound almost made him vomit.

Quickly he grabbed the pencil stub and placed it tightly against the straightened finger. Keeping all his fingers on his left hand straight and stiff he clamped them together and pressed the edge of his hand against his thigh. The pencil stayed in place. The finger remained fixed.

He took the clean toilet paper and wrapped it around his little-finger and the pencil-stub splint. Then he tied the shoelace on tightly, winding it around and around until his finger was encased in a brown cocoon. He stood up.

One more thing. Once more he went to the dead border guard. He took the man’s handgun from its holster and put it in his belt. It was risky carrying a gun. It was a risk he was willing to take.

He frowned down at the body. An alarm bell was clamoring in his head. He could not shut it off. What had tipped the man off? Curfew violation? Something else? Something he had overlooked. Something that might betray him again? He stared at the dead man. He would get no answers from him.

Or would he? Quickly—one final time—he went through the man’s pockets.

In his inside jacket pocket he found a folded map, soiled and cracked in the creases. It was a map of the area. He held it close. He could barely make out the writing on it.

Along the border an area had been shaded in red pencil. He read the legend:
RESTRICTED AREA.

He felt a weight life from him. That was it. That was why the guard had jumped him. No other reason.

He threw the map on the body. Without another glance at the dead border guard, he picked up the bicycle and began to pedal down the dark night road.

Rudi A-27 had arrived in Denmark.

11

Tom’s legs were getting cold. The wind seemed to penetrate to the very marrow of his bones. He was sitting on the edge of the hole cut in the floor of the aircraft fuselage. In less than a minute he’d plunge through the belly of the plane—like a calf being dropped by a pregnant whale. He wondered why the British didn’t use a side door to jump from, like he’d done in the States.

He let his eyes sweep the plane. Everything stood out in indelible detail. Almost as if his mind strained fully to absorb this last impression.

Last?

The plane was a De Haviland Mosquito XVI. With complete clarity he remembered every single word they’d told him about it. It was their smallest bomber: wing span fifty-four feet, length forty feet. It was powered by two Rolls Royce Merlin 73 engines of 1290 horsepower each. He was conscious of them laboring through the night sky, although their speed was probably not much over half the maximum of 408 miles per hour.

He glanced at the parachute static line, its metal snap-on ring firmly attached to the jump cable.

His mind was filled with detail. Was it to shut out other thoughts? Thoughts of . . .

He stared deliberately at the two lights above him. The red light was on. The pilot had begun his run-in to the drop zone. He was aware of the jump master, a young British NCO, standing close behind him. He rather felt he was there to give him a good shove if he froze on the jump signal.

He would not.

He had an irresistible urge to glance down into the dark night void rushing past below. They had warned him not to. Keep your eyes on the lights, they’d said. Over and over again. Keep your eyes on the lights.

He looked down. . . . He was hurtling through black space. The air shrieked past his ears. He was plummeting through the Stygian darkness. He waited for the jerk of the opening chute. It did not come.

An icy thought lanced through his mind like a flash of lightning. The truth screamed through his very being:
He had roman-candled!
The chute had not opened! He was plunging toward oblivion. In mute terror he waited for the deadly impact that would obliterate his very thoughts. . . .

He suddenly heard the voice of the jump master bellow behind him: “Go!”

He tore his eyes from their hypnotic stare into the beckoning darkness and looked up at the lights before him. The jump light shone green.

With both hands he pushed off and instantly plunged into the black void. At once he felt himself gripped in a fist of pure force. Tensely he waited for the life-assuring jerk as the static cord played out taut and ripped the canopy free from his backpack to fill with air and billow open above him. Each split second was an eternity.

His last-minute instructions, his long-ago training, the remembered experience of his two jumps, all tumbled about in his mind: You will be dropped from two thousand feet You will be on the ground in two minutes. You will be blown horizontal to the ground the instant you drop from the plane and fall into the slip stream and the chute is ripped open.

The chute ripped open.

He suddenly felt a violent jerk. His chute was free. Open! He felt a surge of wild elation. He glanced up. He saw nothing.

For a split moment his heart stopped, then he remembered—when the canopy is full open you will swing under it. You will begin to oscillate. You will check the oscillation by tugging on the two risers in the direction of your swing.

He reached up above his shoulders. He grabbed hold of two of the webbed risers. He looked up. Above him he could make out the cone of suspension lines and the fully opened canopy. It was a beautiful sight.

He suddenly remembered the plane. He listened for it. Only faintly could he make out a distant, disappearing drone.

He was alone. He tugged at the risers. Gradually his swing lessened, and stopped.

He looked down. The darkness had given way to a murgy grayness. He could make out the ground far below. The earth was rushing up to meet him. That was it. There was no sensation of falling. He was suspended, utterly alone, in space—and the entire massive planet was rushing headlong up to meet him in a crushing embrace.

And there, faintly glowing, three pinpoints of light. His reception committee. Far off to the right. Too far.

When you are stable, you can guide the chute in any direction you wish. Pull on the risers in the direction you want to fall. The canopy panels on that side will be partly collapsed. You will slip in that direction. How fast depends on how much you collapse them. And for how long. Try to land facing in the direction of drift. Not with your back to it.

If you can see the ground before you land, you can soften your landing impact by giving a sudden strong pull on all four risers when you are about fifteen feet above ground. The air in the chute will momentarily be trapped and you will make a soft landing. But count on your landing as being like jumping off the roof of a slow-moving freight train!

He looked for the three points of light. They were still too far to the right. He pulled on the appropriate risers and felt himself slip toward the lights.

Suddenly, farther to his right four bright lights blazed to life! Headlights. In the same instant the sound of motors starting up reached him. The three pinpoint lights at once disappeared.

Tom felt his blood freeze. He had never in his life before felt so alone, so exposed, so helpless. His mind raced.

The drop had been discovered.

You can slip in any direction you wish.

He grabbed the left risers. He pulled them down toward him and held them. He felt the chute slip away from the glaring headlights below and gather speed until he was aware of the air whistling past his ears.

Below was a small forest. It was dangerous, but he would have to land there. The black treetops rushed up toward him.

When should he check his fall? Now! He let go the risers. The slipping stopped, but he was drifting rapidly. The next instant the top tree branches reached for his legs. Instinctively he closed his eyes.

If you have to land among trees, keep your legs together, pointed down. Keep your arms at your side. Pray you won’t be knocked out. And hope you will not be caught dangling too high to get down!

He felt the tree branches tear at him, batter and whip him. The world was filled only with the sounds of breaking, splintering branches and tree limbs, and the ripping of cloth. Suddenly there was a shoulder-wrenching jerk. And silence.

He opened his eyes. He was dangling about ten feet from the ground. He punched the opening mechanism on his harness, slipped out and dropped to the turf below.

For a moment he stood listening, breathing heavily. Then he took off in a steady trot, away from the distant sound of approaching cars.

CIC Agent Thomas Jaeger had arrived in Denmark.

He was running silently along a narrow path in the hushed night forest. He realized his situation was desperate. Somehow, the drop had been discovered. By accident? Or . . . by betrayal?

He had missed the reception committee. He had no one to turn to for assistance. He was alone, unarmed, in a country occupied by the enemy, a country whose language he did not understand or speak. On the tenuous trail of a cunning, superbly trained adversary.

He knew he had an impossible task before him. He did not dwell on it. His primary job now was to evade his pursuers and find a safe place of hiding. He ran on, trying to put as much distance between him and his landing spot as he could.

The path snaked like a pale gray ribbon through the dark forest. Suddenly, ahead of him, a figure jumped from the shadowy brush on the edge of the wood and planted itself firmly in his way. The unmistakable outline of a sub-machine gun was pointed straight at him.

He stopped. There was a small noise behind him. He whirled around. Behind him was a second figure. And a second gun, aimed at his gut He froze.

Automatically his right hand tensed in anticipated action. Then it hit him. He had no gun. He suddenly felt as if an abysmal cavity existed where his shoulder holster ought to be. He felt utterly naked. Totally vulnerable.

Slowly the two figures moved toward him. The guns never wavered from him. He watched them tensely, every sense alert. Two young men. Clad in dark sweaters and dark pants, their faces grim and warily hostile. They stopped a few feet away on either side of him.

From the underbrush a third figure emerged. Also clad in a dark sweater and pants. It was a girl. Her challenging breasts outlined by the tight sweater could not be denied. She stepped up to Tom. “
Hvem er De?
” she asked coldly. “
Hvad gør De her?
”

Tom thought quickly. The three were obviously not Germans. Were they part of the reception committee? Freedom Fighters? Or members of the Danish Nazi Corps preying on the underground for their masters? No. They did not look like traitors. That was ridiculous. What does a traitor look like?

He decided he had to take a chance. “I do not speak Danish,” he said calmly. “I am an American Counter Intelligence officer. I was just dropped. You must have heard the plane.”

He looked straight at the girl. He was struck by her clean, open features, her huge blue eyes, which stared at him with icy suspicion. In the darkness of the night her clear, fresh skin seemed to shine with a luminescence of its own.

“I missed my reception committee,” he said.

The girl studied him impassively. “You will come with us,” she said. She spoke with a strong Danish accent. “You will do as we say.” She nodded toward the two men. “Klaus and Holger will not hesitate to shoot you.”

Tom shrugged in resignation. Damned suspicious Danes. He had no time to play their cloak-and-dagger games. “Okay,” he said irritably. “Let’s get on with it.”

In silence they marched him through the woods to a dirt road nearby. In the brash four bicycles were hidden. They had obviously been expecting someone.

Tom kept silent.

The girl pointed to one of the bikes. “Can you ride it?” she asked.

“Of course,” he snapped.

For half an hour they rode in silence along deserted back roads. They passed only a few dark houses. Finally they came to a tiny wooden cabin, brightly painted. White with red trim. In the small plot of ground around it several kinds of vegetables grew luxuriously, neatly set in row upon row. Numerous tiny plots and cabins exactly alike edged the dirt road. It was just dawn as they entered the cabin.

“What now?” Tom asked.

“We wait,” the girl said.

“Look,” Tom said in exasperation, “if you are part of my reception committee, say so, dammit! I came here to meet Sven. Sven the Mole. I’m on an important mission. I don’t have time to play games!”

The three Danes remained silent.

“What the hell’s the matter with you?” Tom demanded angrily. “Don’t you believe me?”

The girl looked at him, her eyes serious. “Perhaps,” she said. “Perhaps not.”

“Let me prove it, dammit! Take me to see Sven!”

The girl said nothing.

“What the hell are we waiting for?” Tom growled.

“You will see.”

He glared at the three grim Danes. Forcibly it struck him. They were the captors. He, the captive! He did not like being on the other side of the fence.

The two men walked over to a rough wooden bed standing at one end of the room. They moved it aside. Carefully they pried up a couple of floorboards beneath. They took out two guns that appeared to Tom to be German Walthers and placed the Sten guns in the hiding place. They replaced the bed. They settled down to wait.

The man called Klaus glanced at his watch. He nodded to the girl sitting at the window.

She stood up. “We go,” she said.

They took him outside. It was already bright daylight. He looked at his watch. It was just past 0630 hours. A hell of a way to start the day.

The girl came up to him. “You will ride with us,” she said. “You will not be stupid. Or you will be dead.”

He did not answer her. He had already decided to play out their game. It was the only one in town.

They rode in single file. The girl led the way, followed by the man called Holger and Tom. Klaus brought up the rear. The two men had casually let Tom see their guns stuck in their belts under their sweaters before they had started out. The implication had not been lost upon him.

They quickly left the area of the little cabin plots. Victory gardens, Tom surmised. And presently a side road took them to a main highway. It was at once apparent why his captors had imposed the wait to exactly this hour. The road was filled with bicyclists. Men and women. Literally thousands of them. Riding their bicycles to work in the city.

Tom and his escort entered the stream of traffic. They could have had no better cover.

Tom’s uneasy incertitude grew steadily as, surrounded by their protective shield of bike commuters, he and his watchers rode into the city of Copenhagen. Who were his captors? Where were they taking him? Why?

As they turned from one picturesque city street into another, they were suddenly confronted with a small column of uneasy-looking German soldiers marching toward them, their coarse field-gray Waffen SS uniforms looking disturbingly out of place.

Stony-faced, the Danish bicyclists steered around them. Tom’s skin crawled. The enemy. So close. So damned close. He watched the hunched back of Holger riding in front of him. Had it tensed?

They rode past the sports stadium and the lakes to the center of town, Kongens Nytorv—the King’s Newmarket, dominated by the impressive Royal Theater.

Here they turned down Nyhavn. It was the sailors’ part of town. Sailors from the world over. Old, colorful buildings, some dating back to the eighteenth century, lined the murky canal that led from the square to the docks. Once stately and important, they now housed a conglomeration of cheap flamboyantly named taverns and dives, small questionable hotels and an assortment of tattoo parlors. At night the area was a rowdy, bawdy playground for the pleasure-seeking rabble of the sprawling port. In the cold light of early morning it looked merely seamy and tawdry.