Sleeper Agent (32 page)

She turned her head toward him, her face glowing with happiness.

Now!
The shot was muffled by the little cushion with its message of love. The slug tore into his foster mother’s back, ripping through her lung. For a split second he looked into her eyes—an abyss of incomprehension. Of anguish.

She crashed across the tray with her offering of affection to her foster son and slid onto the floor. She lay still.

He turned away. He couldn’t bear to look at her. But,
verdammt nochmal,
he’d
had
to do it! He’d had no choice. No choice at all.

The American agent who’d gotten his stinking hands on his dossier had sealed her fate.
They
would have tracked her down.
They
would have made her talk. She could have given them too much information. Too much intimate information about him. It could not be allowed. She could have described him too well.

It had been only three years since he had seen her last. While he had been working for Abwehr III in Copenhagen. In the beginning. He had been curious to see the foster parents of his childhood. Just once. He had pretended he’d been in Denmark on vacation.

He suddenly remembered the snapshot. She had taken a snapshot of him standing with his foster father. Urgently he looked around. The photo album. There. On the buffet. He tore it open.

There was the picture he’d taken of the two of them. And the one of
Lillemor
alone. Smiling. And an empty space. Four empty photo corners—and a blank space. The snapshot of him was gone.

He slammed the album shut. What could she have done with it? Her purse! Maybe she carried it in her purse. Quickly he looked around. He found the purse on a little side table in the hallway. He spilled out the contents. There was no snapshot.

He thought fast. He did not have the time to search the entire apartment. What the hell had she done with the damned picture?

No need to panic. It was not important. If it was found, no one would connect it with him, out of context.

He went to the telephone. He picked up the receiver. He asked the operator for a number. He waited. Then: “Dettling?” he said. “It is done.”

He listened for a moment.

“Yes,” he said. “Wolff.” He hung up. Suddenly a small sound sent an icy chill grating through him. He whirled toward the grotesquely sprawled body of his foster mother.

Her eyes were open. Accusing. They stared at him. She moaned, a small gurgling sound. She was still alive.

He grabbed the little cushion. Across its tender embroidered motto ran an ugly scorched streak. Somehow his gun was in his hand. He stepped behind her, away from the accusing, bewildered eyes. He
had
to. It was up to him. He looked down at her.

Her hair was spilled in gray disarray around her head.
Gray, like Mausi. . . .

He fled.

The little flat across the yard, second-floor-left, in the old apartment complex used by Sven and his group of Freedom Fighters, had been a busy place since Tom had walked in on them. It had become the base of operations for the search for one Jens Peter Rasmussen, foster father.

One by one the searchers reported back to Tom and Sven:

City Hall records controlled by the Germans, not accessible without long-term preparation. Negative.

Telephone records inconclusive. Negative.

The special records of Centralkontoret for Wienerbørns Ophold i Danmark—the Central Bureau for the Residence of Vienna Children in Denmark—impounded by Germans. Not available on short notice. Negative.

Utility records inconclusive. Negative.

It was Tove who finally came up with a lead. A friend of hers worked in the Municipal Public Schools office. She was able to cut through bureaucratic red tape and examine the records herself.

For the years 1921 through 1924 a Vienna Child named Rudolf Kessler was recorded as having attended Vestre Borgerdyd school in Copenhagen. Foster parents: Helga and Jens Peter Rasmussen. Address: St. Knudsvej 5A 3. th. No up-to-date address change recorded.

It was a few minutes before 1700 hours when Tom, accompanied by Sven and Klaus, walked in the front entrance of Number 5A St. Knudsvej Street. They were excited to discover that the nameplate on the door to the third floor apartment, right still read,
J. P. RASMUSSEN
.
Tove’s lead had paid off.

Tom and Klaus positioned themselves on either side of the door. Sven turned the bell handle. Inside, the old bell made a rasping sound. They waited. There was no response. Sven looked at Tom. Tom nodded. Cautiously Sven tried the door. It was unlocked. Slowly he pushed it open. Tom peered into the little hallway beyond.

The first thing he saw was the purse, its contents spilled out on the side table. Someone had been at the Rasmussen place before them.

Quietly, cautiously they entered the apartment. They found Helga Rasmussen still sprawled on the floor in the parlor, her clothing soaking up the blood from the pool beneath her. They at once examined her. She was still alive. Unconscious.

“Shot,” Tom said grimly. “Through the lung. She won’t last much longer without help.”

Sven turned to Klaus, his face tight. “Call Falcks,” he snapped.

Klaus hurried to the telephone.

Tom looked questioningly at Sven.

“Falcks Redningskorps,” Sven said. “Emergency service.” He looked at the woman, his eyes haunted. “The bastards,” he growled.

“Who do you think did it?” Tom asked.

“Gestapo.
Hipo. En Stikkergruppe
—a squealer group. They are all murderers,” Sven answered bitterly.

“Or . . . Rudi,” Tom said quietly.

Startled, Sven looked up at him.

Klaus joined them. “They’ll be here,” he said.

Sven nodded. “We had better get out of here before they come.”

“Whoever was here,” Tom said, “was looking for something. Let’s take a quick look around. See what we can find.”

“Okay,” Sven agreed. “We have a few minutes.” He stood up. Klaus disappeared into one of the other rooms. Tom started for the hallway. Suddenly they froze.

The unholy sound they’d heard had been a faint gurgling moan. The sound of desperate agony. Helga Rasmussen had regained consciousness. They knelt beside her. She tried to sit up.

“Don’t move, Fru Rasmussen,” Sven said, his voice soft and assuring. “We have sent for help.”

She looked up at the two men leaning over her. Pink froth colored the corners of her mouth. Black grief her eyes. She made a valiant effort to talk.

“Don’t try to say anything,” Sven said. “We shall speak with you later.”

Weakly she shook her head. “
Nu,
” she whispered. “
Vigtigt
—Now. Important . . .”

Sven and Tom looked at each other. Sven cocked an ear. No sound of the ambulance yet. “What is it,
lille Frue,
” he said compassionately.

“Ru-di . . .
min
. . .
søn,
” she breathed. “
Ikke
. . .
mi . . .
Rudi—not my Rudi.” Somehow, by sheer expression in her whisper, she made the same name spoken twice sound like two different people.

Tom and Sven were at once alert. They glanced at each other. “Talk to her,” Tom said tensely. “Tell me later.”

Sven nodded. He looked earnestly at the woman. “
Mener De, der er to Maend?
”

She screwed her eyes shut for a moment in anguish. “
Nej,
” she murmured. “
Han . . . har forandret sig .
. .”

“
Skød han Dem?
”

“
Ja .
. .” She looked toward the hallway. “
Telefon,
” she wheezed. “
Han . . . ringed .
. .”

“
Hørte de Nummeret?
”

“
Husker det—ikke helt . . . Kun—fem, ni . . . To sidste Numre
. . .”

Sven shot a grim look at Tom. He started to speak.

Helga Rasmussen stopped him. “
Et Navn,
” she mumbled. “
Dettling . .
.”

Sven tensed.

The woman went on. She was getting weak. It was a laborious effort. “Rudi . . .
tog Fars blaa Tøj,
” she whispered, using her waning strength with increasing difficulty. “
For .
. .
stort . . . for ham . .
.” She coughed a rasping, gurgling cough. The pink foam at her mouth bubbled obscenely. She closed her eyes.

Sven stood up. He looked angry. “Here it is,” he said. He spoke quickly, tensely. “Rudi shot her. She says something has changed him.” He clenched his jaws. He looked down at the woman, his eyes dark. “He must have left her for dead,” he said. “It is a miracle she is not.”

He looked back at Tom. “She overheard him make a telephone call. She only remembers the last two digits of the number he asked for. They are the last digits of the telephone number of the new Gestapo Headquarters in St. Annae Palae! She heard him mention a name. Dettling.”

He paused significantly. His voice grew harsh. “We know there is an SS Major Dettling at Gestapo.” Again he looked down at the mortally wounded woman crumpled pitifully on the floor. “She said Rudi took her husband’s blue suit,” he said, profound compassion in his voice. “She said it was too big for him. . . .”

Suddenly Helga Rasmussen spoke again. “Wolff,” she breathed almost inaudibly. “
Wolff
. . .”

Tom shot a quick glance at Sven. He shook his head. Suddenly he tensed. Faintly in the distance the wailing horn of an emergency vehicle could be heard approaching.

Klaus came in. “Nothing,” he said. “They’re coming.”

Sven nodded. He bent down close to the suffering woman. “Help is coming now,” he said softly.

She stared up into his face. Her eyes had an oddly imploring look in them.

“Ru-di . . .” she faltered. She stared at the two men with pain-glazed eyes. “Ru-di . . .”

With superhuman effort she moved her hand toward her throat, inching it along her blood-soaked chest. Higher. Higher. The hand stopped. It would never reach its goal.

Quickly, gently Tom opened the top button of her blouse. A thin gold chain hung around the neck of Helga Rasmussen. He pulled it out. On the end of it was a locket, the size and shape of a half dollar.

The loud ululating clamor of the emergency horn came to a wailing stop. The ambulance had arrived.

Sven grabbed Tom by the shoulders. “Come on!” he said urgently. “We must get out!”

They ran from the room. As they heard the emergency crew pound up the front steps, they ducked out the kitchen door and ran down the back stairs. They hurriedly crossed a little garden, scaled a low fence, and didn’t stop until they were in the yard of the building next door.

Tom looked at the locket clutched in his fist. He opened it. On one side of it the kindly, dignified face of an elderly man looked out at him. Jens Peter Rasmussen. Helga’s husband. On the other, on top of the faded picture of a thin, earnest little boy, was a cut-out snapshot of a grinning young man.

Rudi A-27 had a face!

Tom and the two Danish Freedom Fighters were making their way toward Gestapo Headquarters.

If Rudi had made a call to Major Dettling, he might well have gone there. Now that they knew what their quarry looked like, they might spot him. Wearing his new oversized blue suit!

The streets of the city were tense with barely contained excitement. The suspense was mounting minute by minute. Rumors ran rampant through the restless, ever-shifting crowds. Posters and placards appeared almost magically in shopwindows, on walls and kiosks.

Berlin has fallen.

The British are at the Danish border.

The Germans are about to surrender.

Rumors? Or fact?

They left their bicycles a block away and slowly sauntered toward the building occupied by the Gestapo. There was a constant flow of grim, tight-faced Germans, civilians and military personnel alike, in and out of the place.

Sven frowned. They would have to find a spot from which to watch. It would not be easy. A large sign had been erected prominently in front of the building:

ADVARSEL

AI Sammenstimlen og

Stillestaaen er forbudt

og bliver ikke taalt!

[WARNING

All assemblage and

standing is forbidden

and will not be tolerated!]

They knew all too well the warning was being strictly enforced. The SS troops standing guard attested to it.

They were across the street, a couple of houses away from Gestapo Headquarters, when with sudden shock a gigantic explosion literally shook the ground. Columns of black smoke licked by the flames of fire shot from a row of windows in the Gestapo building like a salvo from a dreadnaught. A raw blast of boiling sound slammed across their ears. Instinctively they hit the ground.

Shattered windows rained splintered glass into the street to swell the hail of debris that erupted from the building.

Tom and Sven struggled to their feet. “
Det var som Fanden!
” Sven exclaimed in awe. “I’ll be damned! He did it!”

Tom looked at him. “Did what? Who?”

“A friend,” Sven answered. “He repaired their typewriters.” He stared at the havoc. “Look at that! Jesus!” He shook his head. “He
said
someday he’d blow the damned place up!”

“Hell of a time he picked,” Tom said bitterly.

They stared at the demolished building. Smoke and dust still billowed from the gaping soot-blackened windows.

The brief stunned hush that followed the thunderous explosion had given way to a growing piercing cacophony of hellish sounds. The pain-wracked screams of the injured and maimed mingled with cries of panic and terror; the fiery crackling of flames was punctuated by the sharp sounds of falling debris and shattered glass; the shouts of would-be rescuers cut through the bedlam roar of confusion as wounded Germans streamed from the building, bleeding, blackened and dazed. Others rushed toward the entrance with the SS guards to render what aid they could.

“This is our chance!” Tom said quickly. He turned to Klaus. “Stay here!” he called. “Keep your eyes open. Sven! Come on!”