Sleeper Agent (31 page)

Across from him was a door. It was ajar by a couple of inches. Quickly he strode to it and pushed it wide open with his foot.

The scene before him seemed frozen in time, like a stop-action motion picture effect. There were about a dozen young people in the room, mostly young men, some women, every one of them staring at Tom in stunned surprise. He saw Sven and Klaus and Holger—and the several guns trained menacingly on him. He was acutely aware of Tove behind him.

He kept his hands on his head. He stepped into the room. “Hello, Sven,” he said.

Sven was the first of the Danes to regain control of himself. Curtly he snapped at Klaus. “Klaus!” He nodded sharply toward the door.

Klaus at once hurried away.

Sven turned to Tom. “What the devil are you doing here?” he demanded icily.

Tom returned his gaze. A lot depended upon his answer. Whatever he said, he knew it would sound melodramatic. But life
is
melodramatic. There
is
a time and a place for melodrama. Perhaps this was it. The time and the place to go all the way. “I came to be accepted,” he said quietly. “Or killed.”

The silent tension in the room seemed stretched beyond its limit. The eyes and attention of all were riveted on Tom.

He gazed steadily at Sven. “You were concerned, Sven, that I might be a German informer, sent to betray you and your group,” he said. He looked around him. “If I were, this house would now be surrounded by Gestapo and SS!”

Slowly he took his hands from his head. No one stopped him. “Instead,” he said. “Instead . . . I am alone. Unarmed. I come as a friend. I seek your help.”

Klaus came hurrying into the room. Sven at once shot a questioning glance at him. Klaus shook his head. “
Der er ikke nogen,
” he said. “Nobody there.”

“How did you get here?” Sven asked suspiciously.

“You forget. I can ride a bicycle, too.”

“Søren?”

“He’ll have a tender belly, but he’s okay.”

“How did you know we were in this apartment?”

Tom grinned wryly. “I didn’t. I tried them all. One at a time.” He took off the borrowed cap. He threw it on the table. “It’s amazing how stupid a telegraph messenger can be!”

Sven began an angry retort.

“Hold it, Sven!” Tom interrupted firmly. “I think now it is time for
you
to listen to
me!
”

Sven glared at him. He shrugged. “We listen.”

“Good. Here goes,” Tom said. “I told you I am on the trail of a man. I am. A dangerous man. Right now, perhaps the most dangerous man alive.”

The Freedom Fighters listened intently.

“I believe he is here. Now. In Copenhagen. But he will not be here for long. And he
must
be caught. I cannot do it without your help, and I cannot wait to be cleared by London.”

He looked soberly around him at the grave young faces of the underground fighters. “I came here,” he said, “alone. Unarmed. To prove to you that I
am
the American agent you expected. And not a German informer. If my purpose had been to capture this entire group, you would now, all of you, be prisoners of the Gestapo!”

He looked directly at Sven. “But that was not my purpose. Believe me now, Sven. Accept me. You know what your alternative is.”

For a long moment there was utter silence in the room. Tom felt as if a thousand eyes were boring into him, examining him, probing him, as if he held a host of deadly secrets.

Sven regarded him solemnly. Suddenly his tension left him. “I accept you,” he said.

Tom took a deep breath. He had won.

“But here,” Sven continued, “here it must be unanimous. All of us must accept you.” He looked gravely at Tom. “You understand, my friend? If one of us here, only
one
of us, feels that it is still necessary to check with London, it will be done.”

Tom nodded grimly.

“I, then, vote yes,” Sven said firmly. He turned to Tove. “Tove?”

“Yes.”

“Holger?”

“Yes.”

One by one he called the names of the Freedom Fighters. One by one they answered him. Yes.

One man was left. Klaus. Sven looked at him. “Klaus?”

The man frowned. He hesitited. “One question, Sven,” he said, his voice strained.

“Ask it.”

Klaus thought for a moment. “A bomb can be set to go off at a specific moment,” he said haltingly. “At a moment when it will inflict the heaviest damage.” He looked at Tom. “What . . what if this man is like such a bomb? Waiting for the moment he can wreak the greatest destruction? Bring others down with us?”

All eyes were fixed on Tom. Silence hung heavy in the room.

Tom turned to Klaus. “Klaus,” he said quietly, “right now, perhaps within days, a far greater act of destruction than anything any of us can possibly inflict is about to happen. The final destruction of Hitler’s entire Third Reich. What damage that I could not already have done can I do before then?”

Klaus stared at him for a few seconds. “I vote . . yes,” he said.

The tension broke. The Freedom Fighters crowded around Tom. He sought out Tove. Their eyes met. She looked radiant.

Sven came up to him. He shook his head. “You took a very great chance, my friend,” he said.

Tom grinned. “Not so damned great, Sven. I figured you really didn’t believe I was a German stool pigeon. Or you would not have revealed as much as you did to me.”

Sven frowned. “Revealed? What?”

“Oh, come on, Sven,” Tom said. “Your names. The hiding place in the little cabin. Your meeting place in the bar. You would not have let me see all that if you really thought I was a German plant.”

“You are wrong,” Sven said soberly. “Dead wrong.”

Tom frowned at him.

“The names mean nothing. They are code names. We would not have gone near the cabin until we knew you were all right. And the hiding place under the bed is booby-trapped.”

“But . . . the bar?”

“We have never been there before. We will not go there again. The Scarlet Mermaid never opens until well after noon. No one is ever there before that time. If the Germans had questioned the owner, he could have told them nothing. Except that his establishment had been broken into. And he could have shown them the broken lock on the back door.”

Tom grew sober. “And Søren?”

“Yes, Søren,” Sven said seriously. “He is a patriot. But he does not work at the Mermaid.” He nodded. “He did take a chance. It is as he wanted. You may have given him a sore belly, my friend. He always
had
a courageous heart.” He looked at Tom. “Søren would have taken you to a hotel room. A few houses away. He would have waited with you until we had had our reply from London.”

“Jesus,” Tom muttered. “You had me covered six ways to Sunday.”

“Now,” Sven said briskly, “what can we do? This man you must find—who is he? Is he a Dane? How can we locate him?”

Tom was at once businesslike. “His name is Kessler. Rudolf Kessler,” he said. “But he will not be using that name. He is an Austrian.”

He looked from one to the other of the young underground fighters. “I have only one lead. It may be enough for us. The man was brought up here in Copenhagen. He was a Vienna Child. He speaks Danish fluently. He worked here for the Gestapo during part of the occupation. As an informant against the underground.”

A stir rustled through the young people.

Tom looked at Sven. “I know the name of the family that took him in as a child,” he said. “I do not know where they live. Nor if they are still alive, in fact I want you to find them for me. One family that through the years from 1920 to 1924 had a Vienna Child named Rudolf Kessler in their home. Use any records available to you.”

He paused. “The name is Rasmussen. Jens Peter Rasmussen.”

It had not changed, except for the changes of age. Rudi stared at the nameplate on the door. The white porcelain had yellowed. The ornate black lettering was chipped. And the edges of the plate screwed onto the door were marred with smears of old paint. But the name still read,
J. P. RASMUSSEN.

Gestapo records had shown that the Rasmussen family still occupied the little third-floor-right apartment on St. Knudsvej Number 5A.

Rudi had walked through the little side alley and looked into the yard in back. The bike sheds had been rebuilt, and the tree with the swing was gone. The little garden was still there. But not his fort. Not the totem pole with his dog pistols. Not his childhood. . .

He reached for the turning handle that would ring the bell inside. He could feel his heart beat ponderously. Every cell in his body ached to turn away and leave. But he had to go through with it. His mind was a flood of rushing thoughts. . .

He had arrived in Copenhagen earlier in the day. Once out of the restricted area, he’d had no difficulties making his way to the Danish town of Aabenraa. There he had taken a train to Copenhagen. It had been as simple as that.

He had at once reported to his contact, Sturmbannführer Dettling, at Gestapo Headquarters. Dettling had handed over to him the final Sleeper Agent list. It was now safely taped to the small of his back, where once his Danish papers had been concealed. In time he would memorize it.

But Dettling had also given him some catastrophic news. He had been blown! His cover had been compromised! Before he’d even had a chance to go into action. Through some idiotic fluke a damned American Counter Intelligence agent had blundered across part of his Schloss Ehrenstein
Personalbogen.

The enemy now had his real name: Rudolf Kessler. They knew he had been reared in Denmark. They knew the name of the Danish foster family: Rasmussen.

It would not be difficult to deduce his cover name—the name in which all exfiltration arrangements had been made, the name he would use until he could adopt his final cover in the USA, the name on his Danish identification papers: Rudolf Rasmussen.

It
had
to be assumed that the cover name no longer was safe. All exfiltration plans made had to be scrapped. An alternate plan had been activated. He would be briefed later in the day. . . .

His hand touched the metal bell handle. It felt depressingly cold. He rang. Presently he heard soft footsteps approach. Slippers. She still wore them.

The door opened. A small gray-haired woman with a soft, solemn face looked up at Rudi.

“
Lillemor,
” he said quietly. “Little mother.”

The woman’s clenched fist flew to her mouth. Her eyes filled with the instant tears of joy. She threw her arms around him. “Rudi!” she sobbed. “Rudi!”

He felt a chill knife through him. Gently he disengaged himself from his foster mother.

“
Kom ind!
” She beamed. “
Kom ind, min Dreng!
—Come in, my boy!” She pulled him into the flat. With radiant, tear-bright eyes she stared at him. “Oh, but you look fine!” she exclaimed. She hugged him again.

He took her by the shoulders. “
Lillemor,
” he said earnestly. “Where is
Far?
”

She grew sober. “He is gone, Rudi,” she said quietly. “He is no longer with us, rest his soul.” She looked at him, her eyes round with wonder. “But . . how is it possible you are here?” she asked.

“I need help,
Lillemor.
”

“Help?” She was at once concerned. “Are you in trouble?”

“No,
Lillemor,
” he said quickly. “I do not have the time to explain. Not now.”

“What can I do for you, Rudi?” she said simply.

He touched his clothing, still the old soiled jacket he’d picked up at the farm. “I need clothing,” he said. “I thought . . .
Far,
but—”

She looked at his clothes, seeing them for the first time. “Yes,” she said brightly. “I still have one of
Far’s
suits. I . . . I kept it. His good blue suit.” She looked critically at Rudi. “It will perhaps be just a little big for you, my boy. But you try it, yes?”

She hurried across the room to a closet, her slippers making a soft, homey rustle on the floor. She brought out a man’s blue suit. “Here,” she said. “You put that on, my boy. I will make you something to eat. You must eat!”

She had come alive. She was fussing over her boy. The years had rolled away. “I will make you some
Smørrebrød,
Rudi, the kind you like.” She smiled fondly at him. “I have some of your favorite
Leverpostej!
And home-made
Asier!
” She bustled off toward the kitchen. “You put on
Far’s
suit,” she said.

He looked after her. He felt cold. Quickly he shrugged out of his old clothes. He dressed in Jens Peter Rasmussen’s good blue suit. It smelled faintly of camphor. It
was
a little too big. But it would do. He transferred his papers to his new jacket. And the gun—the gun he’d taken from the dead border guard—he stuck in his belt.

He looked around. The cushion was lying on the worn, brown velvet sofa. He remembered it.
Lillemor
had embroidered the sentimental epigram on it herself. For
Far:

LYKKE MELLEM TO MENNESKER

ER SOM DEN DUNKLE NAT

STILLE, MEN MED TUSINDE

LYSE STJERNER BESAT

Happiness between two people

Is like the ebon night,

Still and silent, yet with a thousand

Stars in shining light.

He picked it up. He could feel the cold sticky sweat staining his armpits.

“Here you are, my boy,” Mrs. Rasmussen called cheerfully as she entered with a little tray. “
Rigtig Leverpostejmad
—real liver paté sandwiches and milk! Enjoy it, love.”

He stood in the middle of the room, the little embroidered cushion clutched before him.

She bent down to place the tray on the little coffee table.

He did not want her to know. He did not . . It
had
to be.