Pabst released him and an unsteady Ryan put a hand to his damaged face and held back his head to try to stop the flow of blood.
“Herr Doktor, I believe you need to be seated; you’re looking a bit pale.” Horst gestured to one of the chairs. “Klaus, go fetch me some wire or rope from the machine shop. It’s time we had a nice little chat with our guest, don’t you think?”
Ryan slumped down heavily, lightheaded from loss of blood but still with enough presence of mind to swivel toward his adversary.
Klaus returned with a coil of rope and handed it to the soldier. “Tie each wrist to an armrest—palms up, it’s more interesting that way—and each foot to the base. Nice and tight, now.”
The sentry complied and Pabst tested the bonds. Ryan felt more than naked—with legs forced apart, he was totally exposed to his tormentor.
“Search his things,” Horst ordered, as he picked up a cushion from the floor and placed it on the other desk chair. He rolled it around to face the American and sat with crossed legs, as if preparing for a casual conversation.
Klaus emptied all of Ryan’s pockets, laying out the findings on the chart table. “Passport, wallet, Mont Blanc pen—very good taste, Herr Doktor—, a pipe and tobacco pouch, a comb, some maps, and a bundle of marks. And, of course, this attractive Party lapel pin.” Klaus turned to the helpless American. “Hmm,” he murmured, “I recall something we missed.” He removed the heavy gold ring from Ryan’s finger and set it next to the other belongings. “The collection is now complete.”
“Almost, but not quite.” Horst stared at Ryan. The swollen tissues and unstanched flow of blood were beginning to distort his features. “Now, Herr Doktor, judging by your recent actions, it seems your greatest wish is to join our secret state police. You certainly appear to have mastered use of the warrant badge, the one item not in our little inventory here.” He gestured toward the tabletop, then rose from the chair. “Any idea where it might be? It was a personal gift, you know, so does have certain sentimental value.”
Ryan said nothing, his head still tilted back to drain the blood into his sinuses.
Horst picked up the tobacco pouch and unzipped it, breathing in the aroma of the tobacco. “A strong blend. Nice choice.” Ryan forced open his swollen eyes at the mention of the pouch, but remained silent. Horst zipped it shut and returned it to the table. “You’re sure you don’t recall where you left my badge?”
Ryan remained mute.
“Well, perhaps you’ll remember shortly. Meanwhile, since you so want to be one of us, let me show you how to help detainees recall valuable information.”
Horst bent down and pulled the fire poker from the scuttle beside the stove. He opened the iron door fully and stirred the coals to a frenzy of flame and spark, then left the pointed rod buried in the blazing embers. “Klaus, one more trip next door to the machine shop, if you please. Look for some implements that Herr Doktor Lemmon will find, shall we say, persuasive?”
In the cabin of the Water Protection Police gunboat, Erika did her best to soothe poor Leo as he whimpered softly into the folds of her coat, hugging his bear. “You’re safe, darling, it’ll be okay,” she lied. She rocked him gently, wrapping him in her free arm. “Be strong, my little man, I need you strong now.”
They sat on a bench seat at the rear. The armed guard leaned against the boat wheel, eyeing her crossed legs. Her free hand in her topcoat pocket cradled the unfamiliar grip of the pistol. She was pleased it had not ended up in her handbag after all, which now hung uselessly on the wall of the shack. She had flicked off the safety as they crossed to the ramp of the police patrol boat. Horst’s failure to have her searched had come as no surprise. He had always treated her as a harmless appendage to his male ego. Women did not act, they reacted. Women held no opinions; they mirrored the beliefs of their men.
Upon boarding the gunboat she had counted the armed men she had seen. Besides her SS escort she spotted two men on the forward deck, almost hidden in the swirling fog. Horst had mentioned men posted at the gates, and perhaps others were on board that she had missed. And, of course, her vile husband and the loathsome Pabst along with one additional soldier were still at the shack with poor Ryan.
But Erika was no longer a victim, and she fought the tears which threatened to weaken her. After the incident on the train she knew she was strong and could act in the face of adversity. She would not waste the certainty of the pistol. With luck there was still time to spare Ryan the pain coming his way. She imagined the horrors he would endure, for she now knew that Horst knew no compassion, respected no personal boundaries.
She would have to act soon or lose her advantage, but still she wavered. If she managed to shoot the guard—it would be so simple to fire the pistol through the fabric, but how to aim it well?—Leo would be endangered. She certainly could not return to the shack with Leo, and she could not leave her terrified son attended by a dead man while she went to rescue Ryan. Only one thing was certain. She would save a bullet for Horst. He would pay for this horror of a life.
First she had to handle the lecherous young SS trooper. She extended her legs a bit further, hiking her skirt to reinforce the distraction. Looking up to the guard, she smiled softly and he returned the attention with a grin.
Back in the shack, Klaus brought to the task an impressive assortment of tools in an oil-stained canvas tote. In his other fist he grasped the handle of a boat battery, and over his shoulder hung coiled jumper cables. He set the paraphernalia on the table, moving aside Ryan’s possessions, and began to lay out the implements in neat order.
Horst appeared pleased with the selection, rising from the chair to run a finger over each tool in turn. “Let’s see what we have here for your first lesson, Herr Doktor.” He picked up a set of heavy pliers with blunt ends. “First, you should know that compression and torque get good results. Sounds a bit like describing a motorcycle engine, doesn’t it? Much like the Waffen-SS motorcycle you road-tested for us.”
He set down the pliers and lifted a half-meter-long welding rod which he immediately slammed against the tabletop with a resounding thump. “Can you imagine, rods and whips do wondrous things to human flesh and can be very persuasive?”
He picked up a spoon gouge and tested its sharpness, his fingertip lightly following the u-shaped curve of the blade. “Then we have any tool that can take a fine edge. A well-honed blade tends to loosen tongues—no pun intended.”
Horst turned to the battery. “And when all else fails, nothing compares to a satisfying jolt of electricity, especially on sensitive body parts.” He attached the clamps and brought the cables together, releasing a cascade of sparks. “But enough introductory remarks, let’s turn now to practical lessons.”
He stepped over to the coal stove and withdrew the poker. “Here’s my favorite of late, especially when it’s so chilly outside.” The tip of the poker glowed red hot. “We find it useful for delicate areas of discussion.” Horst brought the radiant tip toward his fingertip, then drew it back the moment he sensed the fiery heat. Ryan gritted his teeth, determined to show no fear through sheer force of will. “Allow me to demonstrate,” Horst said, “and, please, don’t hesitate to speak up if this isn’t warm enough for you.”
Klaus approached from behind and held Ryan’s chair stable, as Horst eased the smoking rod ever closer to Ryan’s upper arm. His skin began to redden and singe. Abruptly, Horst forced the point into the bicep, searing the flesh as the pointed tip struck muscle. Ryan lurched back, but the chair hardly moved, and Horst withdrew the implement.
A sickening stench rose from the burned flesh. Ryan moaned and ground his teeth, but refused to cry out. The young soldier had turned aside at the first contact of the rod and now stared toward the far corner of the room, his face an ashen mask.
“Let’s see if another spot is more sensitive.” Horst lowered the tip of the rod to the crook of Ryan’s elbow and branded him twice more in unhurried succession.
Ryan tensed each time in anticipation, then endu
red the flood of pain and involuntarily struggled against the bonds. He felt faint after each assault, nauseated, and tasted blood where he had bitten his tongue. He was drenched in his sweat. But he would not give them the satisfaction of hearing him scream or beg for mercy.
“Well now,” said Horst, “perhaps I’ve misjudged you. I thought you’d be very talkative by now. Shall we see what courage you show when we bring your manhood to the party?” He returned to the stove and plunged the poker deep into the coals until the tip was once again glowing from within. “We don’t want to do a half-assed job now, do we?”
Klaus showed his appreciation with a broad grin of approval and braced the chair once again while Horst approached with measured slowness. The glowing poker left a wispy trail as it neared Ryan’s groin. He drew back convulsively to the limit of his bonds, every fiber of his body tensed in dread of the coming torment, and against his will his body began to twitch and tremble.
Erika first thought she heard backfire from an ill-tuned motorcycle, but then overlapping machine gun bursts answered in rapid succession. The guard recognized immediately the staccato of a fire fight and approached the door with caution, opening it a hand’s breadth and peering out into the fog. A new exchange of fire drew his attention toward the entry gate of the compound.
The young SS man was obviously torn between obeying orders to babysit a harmless mother or find his first real action on the docks. Erika heard men race down the ramp in the direction of the fusillade. Now shots rang out from the bow of her launch and crossfire erupted from somewhere out on the water. Bullets struck outside the launch cabin and she dropped to the floor, pulling down Leo, abruptly wide awake, and covering his body with hers.
“Mutti, what’s happening?”
“Hush, Leo. Just do as I say and we’ll be fine.”
The guard ignored his charges, his focus shifting to an attack coming from across the water. “Stay here,” he ordered, and cocking his MP36 he slipped out of the cabin onto the gangway
The cabin door remained ajar and Erika could see landside toward the warehouses and the main firefight. Gunfire rattled the length of the wharf. Several soldiers shouted to each other from the gravel below.
“Wait here and keep down,” she whispered to Leo as she crawled on all fours toward the boat’s wheel. She opened a tool box strapped to the wall and found a screw driver and a wrench. Pocketing the ignition key, she jammed the screw driver into the slot and pounded it with the makeshift hammer.
She motioned to Leo and he raced over with bear in hand and leapt into her arms at the open doorway. Heavy caliber bullets continued to ricochet from the portside cabin wall. She told Leo to hang on tightly, ducked down, and they slipped from the cabin. In her right hand she gripped the Sauer, its safety off.
The Gesslinger launch moored directly ahead suggested their best hope for refuge. To a cascade of gunfire from the direction of the gates, Erika ran down the ramp as fast as she could toward the smaller boat, clutching the boy to her chest.
The gun mounted atop the police vessel suddenly opened up, its heavy-caliber rounds splitting the air as the gunner found the range for a small motorboat closing at high speed from the boat basin and firing in their direction. A massive ball of flame churned high into the night sky, dispersing the fog in its brilliant aura as its concussive blast rattled along the row of warehouses. Erika saw two bodies flung high out over the water, silhouetted against the roiling blast as fire consumed the hull of the stricken vessel.
Reaching the launch, she stuck the pistol back in her pocket, tugged at the mooring rope to draw the boat closer to the dock, and then climbed gingerly aboard. Bending low, she pulled back the corner of the canvas deck cover and they both slipped under, now well hidden in the darkness. She dropped over the side the ignition key from her pocket and heard it splash.
“Stay here, my love, and don’t move until I’m back,” she whispered.
“But Mutti, don’t leave, I’m scared.”
“I’ll be right back with Herr Lemmon and we’ll get out of here, all right?”
Leo, obedient as ever, nodded before adding in a barely audible voice: “I’ll be all right, Mommy. I have Bruno.”
CHAPTER FOUR
A secret police system immune to all laws and judicial review had one obvious downside— how to determine who was working on what, and on whose behalf. Denunciations were as prevalent among the relatively few police agents as among the great mass of informants who made the system function. The German people were as intimidated by the threat of “protective detention” as the police were of aggravating the wrong senior officer. René turned this confusion to his benefit in escaping the mayhem on the train.
Once his friends disappeared into the night, he had limped back to the compartment to confirm that the downed agent was still unconscious. And once certain no one was watching, he delivered an extra blow just to maintain that status quo. He then demanded to speak to the chief conductor, whom he found directing the search by lantern for further evidence of a body alongside the tracks.
Despite his limp and the uneven ground, René moved quickly to join the group gathered in their dark uniforms. Flashing the warrant badge and wielding the imperious tone of someone used to immediate obedience, he warned the train crew that any further delay risked charges of hampering official Gestapo business. He offered a simple explanation—a traitor to the Reich had attempted to exit the moving train via a window, and perished for his efforts. Case closed. Meanwhile his own partner lay unconscious on board, very likely suffering from a concussion, and any further delay put the survival of a Gestapo agent in jeopardy.
No one questioned the obvious authority of the man, nor dared risk detention for thwarting an official action of the Gestapo. The train official ordered crew and curious passengers back to the cars, the doors slammed shut, and a minute later the train was once again underway. Let the police sort out the mess later.
René called for a doctor or nurse, and a Wehrmacht medic traveling on family leave was assigned the oversight of Fischer. The soldier and a passenger recruited from the aisle moved the limp body from the floor to the bench seat, and the officious Gestapo officer with a pronounced limp left the medic behind in the compartment.
René exited the train at the first scheduled stop, and two hours passed before he could board the next express south with connection to Kehl. The Gestapo badge was his ticket.
At the Karlsruhe stop he phoned Hugo to warn of the fugitives’ possible arrival ahead of him. He knew immediately something was wrong—the phone rang incessantly without response. René himself had arranged for the quick transfer of Ryan’s party across the river, and the launch was already out of the boathouse and tied dockside before he left Kehl. Hugo was to have sprung into action the moment the “shipment” reached the docks. Hugo—always reliable, always on time. Even to take a piss he’d use the latrine in the office shack, René thought. Answer, dammit!
During the final nerve-wracking kilometers he considered his options, and at the Kehl rail station he phoned once more. No response at either the dockside shack or the main warehouse office. He placed two coded calls over the public phone to alert his network. His comrades were to meet him in forty-five minutes to review a plan of engagement, and they were to come fully armed.
René reached the wooded area above the estuary early. He moved with difficulty, his tweaked leg making the going painful, but the path was well-known since childhood. He quickly spotted two armed sentries just a dozen meters up from the gate. The soldiers apparently considered themselves well-hidden, but their cigarettes offered them up in the fog, and René was able to move close enough to recognize their Schmeissers. One laughed loudly at the obscene comment of the other. If all were as careless as these two, the assault would be over quickly. René returned to the rendezvous point.
His seven men gathered in silence. Each knew the dangers involved; each was committed to the cause despite not knowing the target of their rescue. It was enou
gh to fight the tyranny of the system, enough that René had asked.
When the team was complete, René laid out his plan. Three would launch a frontal attack on the gate, firing from the woods and moving rapidly about to suggest a larger force. The goal was to draw out the SS so they could pick off the combatants one by one. If Ryan’s group was already in Gestapo clutches, the firefight should lure out their guards and leave the fugitives open for rescue from dock- or waterside. Three other men would use a gate at the south end of the company grounds and work their way north behind the warehouses, then cross over toward the office shack and machine shop. René and his strongest fighter Uwe would sneak north to the boathouse beyond the storage yard, return by motorboat across the boat basin, and rescue the fugitives, then spirit them to safety in France.
The assault had begun as planned with a burst of gunfire from his men at the main gate and returning bursts from the Schmeissers. This signaled the teams situated to both south and north to move in. Then, from the vantage point of their boat as they crossed the basin at low throttle, all hell broke loose. An unexpected gunboat dockside suddenly towered out of the fog and fire coming from its prow caught René and Uwe off-guard.
The initial rounds glanced off the water and ricocheted into the darkness. Uwe raked the larger boat with quick bursts from his machine pistol, and they received stronger fire in return, their bow taking a few direct hits. His comrade let loose again with a staccato burst before René pivoted the motorboat to return to the cloak of dense fog. They cut quickly north and angled back in to attack from a different quadrant.
The unmistakable wail of incoming 57-mm Mauser rounds told René they were now outgunned by a boat-mounted MG34. He throttled up and spun the boat, but knew immediately that his response came too late.
The blinding flash and wall of searing flame tore apart his world as their boat’s fuel tank exploded and the craft surrendered to a firestorm of burning wood and twisted metal.
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