The Shadowboxer (14 page)

“Now tell me, where were you? Where did they bring you from?”

“Oranienburg.”

“I do not know of Oranienburg. Is it a camp?”

“Yes.”

“And the Americans freed you?”

“A man freed me. I am not sure if he is American. He brought me here.”

“Just one man?”

“That's all I saw. He stopped the car I was in. He knocked me unconscious. Then he gave me something to make me stay asleep. When I awoke he was in the airplane beside me.”

“Did he put you to sleep with a needle? In the arm?”

“I think so. My arm was sore.”

“And this man, was he thin and tall? About six feet? Did he have violet eyes?”

“His eyes were violet. He was thin and tall.”

“You don't know his name, by any chance?”

“No, he avoided answering that.”

“Excellent. Excellent.” Vetter nodded, bit into a sweet roll and ate quietly. He sipped his coffee. “They sent Spangler for you, and that is excellent. You see, Hilka, the social strata here are most usually determined by the degree of difficulty the Americans went to in procuring you. Konrad Lottman had to be more or less abducted from Mexico. He certainly didn't come of his own volition. It took time and money. That makes him important. Thomas Hutch and Reinhard Teller were requisitioned, with considerable resistance, from South America.”

“Hutch? Who would want anything to do with Hutch?”

“He is German, isn't he? In exile? A
well-known
German!”

“‘Infamous' would describe it better.”

“Infamy is a relative concept, particularly here. Do you remember Nebel? Oswald Nebel?”

“The mayor who—”

“Who fled to Canada and was soon back to his old proclivities? My old antagonist? Yes, the same Nebel. Well, it is a well-known secret that the Americans went to extreme measures in convincing the Canadians to release him. Thus Herr Nebel enjoys more than his share of prestige in our present environment. But you and I, Hilka, are the most exclusive of the elite. We were brought back by Spangler. The only two, so far. We stand above Nebel. Spangler does not like the Americans, and I don't think they like dealing with him—so you can see how very important we must be. They have you on the fifth floor, no doubt—in the Great North Hall? You must have either Suite Seven or Eight on the fifth floor.”

“I'm in Eight.”

“Good,
good
. That means we have only one suite to wait for, Number Seven.”

“I don't understand.”

“Neither do any of us. Not that the Americans are intentionally deceptive, they simply limit the amount of knowledge allowed us. Certain things are obvious—the printing press and the radio studio. But something else is going on. Something dealing with whatever it is they are building on the first three floors of the main house.” Vetter paused. “Tell me, Hilka, what news of your father?”

“He is dead, for all I know—or care.”

“Now, now, we mustn't—”

“Mustn't what? Speak the truth? Why were any of us arrested if not because of him? You dealt with him. You fought him for years. Why must we be polite at this stage?”

“Certainly your father and I disagreed, but he was honorable in his—”

“He was despicable, and you know it. There was little difference between Himmler and him.”

“I would have preferred your father to succeed rather than Herr Himmler.”

“And I prefer to drop the subject.” Hilka put down her cup and glanced about the modern office. “What do they have you doing here?”

“I am ostensibly the publisher.”

“Publisher?”

“Of a newspaper. The
German Popular Gazette
.”

“But what do you know about newspapers?”

“Nothing. There's no need to. They tell me what to do. They supply the important stories.”

“And me? What do the Americans expect of
me
?”

“Why, you are to be one of my editors. You are to be responsible for all matters relating to German women within the Reich. In addition you will have your own little chitchat column. This is your office we're sitting in. You've been assigned a staff of three. In between your newspaper assignments, you'll be expected to make radio transcriptions upstairs at the German Popular Gazette of the Air.”

“I know nothing of this type of work.”

“Then, to quote our benefactor, Colonel Kittermaster, what an opportunity to learn!”

“What
kind
of newspaper? What kind of radio program? What is their purpose?”

“While Major Chumley was running things, that was rather easy to answer. We had thirty-five issues ready for distribution. In fact, if you look out that window you'll see the three warehouses where they are stored. But that was yesterday. Now Colonel Kittermaster has taken over personally. New equipment has been moved in and our purposes are somewhat obscure. You will find, my dear, that when Colonel Kittermaster is directly involved, purposes are
always
somewhat obscure. So there you have it.”

Vetter reached into the desk, brought out a sheet of paper and handed it to Hilka. “This is about as much as I know about the good colonel's policy, for the moment.”

Hilka glanced down.

Printer's Sample

For Translation

(Note:
German Popular Gazette
will always

appear in 75% type size.)

Composed and Approved by: L. B. Kittermaster

17

Julian began Spangler's tour at Communications, a vast complex of recently completed camouflaged Quonset huts and wooden structures at the base of the hills to the rear of the Great North Hall.

C-1, Monitoring, was the largest of the eight self-contained divisions comprising Communications. Bilingual radio operators were already tuned in on every conceivable area of Europe and North Africa from which reception was possible. The general monitoring of German domestic broadcasts took five buildings by itself. Wehrmacht communications required an additional six Quonset huts. Three wooden structures covered the French radio. Belgium and the Netherlands were assigned a building each, as were Norway, Denmark, Portugal, Spain, Morocco, Algeria, Tunisia and Libya. Eighteen buildings were devoted to British radio communications, and three more for this purpose were under construction. Switzerland and Italy had two Quonset huts each. Every monitored broadcast was wire-recorded. The personnel which manned the three daily eight-hour shifts were billeted in twenty-one barracks. A massive Quonset hut served as both mess hall and recreation area. C-1 was completely enclosed in barbed wire. No one could leave or enter without undergoing an arduous credentials inspection.

Internal Security was known as C-4. The compound contained seven buildings and was linked to the primary alarm systems at Westerly. Any penetration of the area would be recorded on its machines. C-4A was the nerve center that kept in constant contact with guard teams patrolling the one hundred and twenty miles of perimeter fencing enclosing the estate.

C-4 and C-4A, Julian pointed out, for some reason had no contact with the six-building complex known as I. P. D., Independent Penetration Detection. I. P. D. was an elaborate secondary alarm system Colonel Kittermaster had ordered installed in the three main buildings on his arrival ten days before. No one really knew its purpose.

C-5 was still under construction. This was the complex which would be fed the propaganda broadcasts emanating from the studios now nearing completion in the main house.

“What propaganda broadcasts?” Spangler asked.

Julian replied offhandedly, “Oh, didn't I mention it before? ‘General Projects Group' is just a cover title.
G. P. G
. is actually German Propaganda Group. This is all a propaganda operation. Our two main fronts are the
German Popular Gazette
and the German Popular Gazette of the Air.”

“All this just for propaganda?”

“Colonel Kittermaster is very well connected in Washington.”

“What's that over there?” Spangler asked, pointing to the most heavily guarded building he had yet seen.

“A new innovation they just sent in from the States—something called the Monster Machine. I don't know much about it myself, but we'll find out soon. They should have it working any time now.”

They finally arrived at C-8, “Dark Channels,” located on the third floor of the South Hall. The twenty-by-twenty-five-foot table-top terrain map of Germany was divided into sixteen different-colored sectors. Sixteen headphoned DC-radio operators were seated in a horseshoe around the north, west and south perimeters, listening for signals from clandestine short-wave transmitters from their assigned zones.

“Those sixteen white flags stuck in the map,” Julian explained, “are agents who have been heard from in the last twelve hours. Those nine blue flags designate where contact was made twenty-four hours ago.”

“What are those?” Spangler asked, pointing to the five red and six black flags arching from Hamburg toward the east.

“The black, Erik, are radio operators out of action—and the red are missing agents.” Julian reached out and pulled a red flag from a spot slightly west of Hamburg. “This was the last contact with Jean-Claude.”

“What are you doing to find him?”

“This room represents only agents and radios watching for the German prisoner transfer. We are calling agents in from other operations to investigate. Those are the green flags you see moving up from the southwest.”

An officer leaned over the table and placed a black flag on Frankfurt.

“Who's that?” Julian demanded.

“Pedro, sir.”

“What about Pedro?”

“He stopped transmission in the middle of Harmon's message. The stoppage coincides with a British air strike on Frankfurt. It looks as if he's been tagged, sir.”

“Why wasn't I given an Early Report?”

“But you
were
, sir. I made it out myself when Pedro went off the air forty minutes ago.”

“I never received it.”

“But Colonel Kittermaster said he would give it to you, sir.”

“What are you doing sending our material to Colonel Kittermaster?”

“I didn't send anything, sir. Colonel Kittermaster was here and took it himself.”

“He was here—in this
room
?”

“Yes, sir. He was conducting an inspection.”

“He has no authority to be in this room.”

“But, sir, he is the commanding officer.”

“Did he take anything else?”

“Yes, sir. He took a copy of every report we filed today.”

“What reports? Be specific! I want a complete list, do you understand? A complete list of—”

“Major Julian,” an aide called, rushing into the room, “they need you upstairs. They've finally got the Monster Machine working.”

18

The bridge was partially destroyed. Convoys were backed up for miles. The van, two motorcycles in front, three behind, had already been waiting five hours when the whistles and the shouting began again.

Volunteer traffic patrols frantically waved trucks and cars off the road. Drivers and soldiers dove desperately for cover as R. A. F. Mosquito bombers swept down, angled off and began the strafing. Tracers streaked along the concrete, shredding men, machines and foliage. The aircraft banked gracefully and prepared for a second run, their twin engines muted by distance, vapor streaming from their wingtips.

Jean-Claude leaped from the culvert, darted across the road and zigzagged along the line of abandoned vehicles. The planes opened fire as he slid under the front wheels of the van. Shells tore into the metal above him. Gasoline began to drip and flare. Flames burst out around the cab. Jean-Claude rolled sideways and scrambled for the tree line.