“Sorry about that sir,” said Jones, wrestling with the screw cap.
“And from the look of things, the charge next time will be drunk and disorderly.”
The unhappy Welshman hastily replaced the unopened bottle, while Dingle smothered a smile.
“I understand Frau Mueller went through Checkpoint Charlie early this morning,” the SS(0)S chief went on.
“Yes sir. Just after midnight.”
“You saw her yourself.”
Jones nodded. “I did, sir.”
The Director turned to Dingle.
“And Ritchie’s on watch now?”
“That’s right sir. He’s at Checkpoint Charlie. The Germans and some of Ritchie’s G2 friends are watching the other checkpoints. But Charlie’s the one they’ll use.”
“Well I hope this Mueller woman isn’t going to throw a spanner in the works. I didn’t expect that.”
The big man looked worried. “What time are the calls from the other side?”
“On the hour every hour, sir, but we haven’t heard anything yet.”
“I don’t like it,” said the Director. “Get your coats and take me to Ritchie. We should just make it by eleven.”
*
It was well past eleven when Jones pushed open the door of the hut which stands in the middle of the narrow Friedrichstrasse at Checkpoint Charlie.
Jason Ritchie eyed the Welshman sourly over the rim of a large enamel mug.
“Trust you to be too late,” he grumbled. “You’ve missed all the excitement. I suppose you’ve been lying in your warm bed while I’ve been freezing in the service of our countries. If it wasn’t for Ann here coming to my rescue with hot coffee—” he uncupped his vast right hand from the outside of the steaming mug and placed his arm around the shapely British WRAC duty corporal. “—I don’t know what would have become of me…”
He bit off the words, his eyes widening with surprise as he caught sight of the Director.
“Sorry sir!” The American stood to attention, slopping some of the coffee on to the floor. “Didn’t know you were here sir.”
Glyn Jones grinned delightedly.
“Alright Mr. Ritchie,” growled the Director, glaring at the blushing WRAC girl, “what excitement have we missed? Have our friends been in contact?”
“Yes sir. At eleven o’clock, on the dot. They’ve called the operation off for twenty-four hours. We’re to stand-to again at six tomorrow morning.”
“Damn! Did they say why they’ve postponed?”
“No sir. It was a very brief message. I guess they don’t want to use the walkie-talkie for too long in case they get caught.”
“Of course.”
“But that’s not all sir. Frau Mueller is back. She came through about fifteen minutes before I got the call. They spotted her when she passed the police post, and one of the Abteilung Eins boys is tailing her.” The Director nodded. “We know that. That’s why we were late getting here. She booked into The Bristol and we couldn’t go through the lobby in case she saw Jones. She’d remember him. We’ve left Dingle to watch her.”
*
“She’s in the dining-room having lunch,” Dingle reported. “And she’s not alone. A girl met her; blonde, about twenty-eight, nice looking.”
“Sounds like her daughter,” said Jones. “Where are they?”
“Just inside the door, on the right.”
The Welshman looked quickly through the open doorway.
“That’s Kristen,” he said positively. “I bumped into her when I was leaving Hilde Mueller’s house the other night.”
“Better not let her see you yet,” said the Director. “You’d better eat out somewhere Jones. The rest of us will be all right here, though. I’m damned hungry. Lead the way Dingle.”
*
“I hope you enjoyed your lunch Erich,” said Kohner, offering a packet of cigarettes.
“Yes, thank you.”
“You must have enjoyed seeing Hilde again after all these years. You must have had a lot to talk about.”
“When can I see her again?”
The fat SSD man rocked back in his chair and let smoke trickle through his nose.
“Ah, that depends on you Erich. If you tell us what we want to know you can join her immediately… when we’ve checked on your information, of course.”
“Where is my wife now?”
“The last I heard, she booked into The Bristol – in West Berlin. And I’m told she was joined there by a very beautiful young lady.”
“Lady?”
“Yes. Blonde, about your daughter’s age. Could it be Kristen, do you think?”
“Fetch them here,” said Mueller. “Fetch them both, then I’ll do a deal with you.”
Kohner shook his head slowly.
“No my friend. You won’t be doing any deals.” He pulled two treacle toffees out of his pocket and tossed one across to his prisoner. “But you will be talking.” The two ex-SS men popped the sticky toffees into their mouths before dropping the wrappings into the ashtray.
This time it was Mueller who shook his head.
“I shan’t talk – until the terms are right.”
Kohner stood up abruptly.
“I shan’t call on you again. In the morning, you can call on me… in the basement.”
He moved quickly to the door before turning, the friendly veneer stripped from him.
“You’re very brave now Erich, with a full belly and a warm room. But it will be different in the morning, in my operating theater and in your old cell. Very different. You think about it carefully tonight.”
Chapter Twelve
Gerhard Kohner was a creature of habit, and one of the habits he had developed as a young SS officer was to rise at five-thirty every morning and take a cold shower before shaving.
This practice was as well-known among his associates as his addiction to treacle toffees – and so the man who picked the lock of the door to Kohner’s apartment at five thirty-four felt reasonably secure. At that hour, there was no one out and about to observe him; and inside the flat, the hiss of the shower drowned any sound he made.
The man slipped silently from the entrance hall to the bedroom, listening to Kohner gasping for breath under the icy lash of the water. He went straight to the SSD man’s jacket, which was hanging on the outside of the wardrobe, and smiled with satisfaction when he found what he had come for in the pockets.
Kohner was still noisily enduring the self-inflicted torture of the cold shower when the intruder let himself out as quietly as he had entered.
Two minutes later, the man was in a telephone kiosk. He dialed a number and, when the connection was made, spoke one word: “Go.”
*
“Go.”
In a flat just off the Frankfurter Allee, in the East sector, a swarthy man with a face like a monkey listened to the word. Dingle would have recognized him as the man who, two days earlier, had collected the package from London. The German made no reply, but a smile flickered briefly around his thickish lips as he replaced the receiver.
He looked at his watch and noted the time: five-forty. He got up, shrugged on a thick overcoat which had been slung over a nearby chair, and left the flat.
The man with the monkey face walked rapidly to the Lichtenberg railway station, two hundred yards away, and joined the throng of early morning workers.
The time was five-fifty. He bought a newspaper and stood, reading it, until the big station clock showed it was three minutes to six. He moved then to a phone box, the last one in the row, next to a blank wall. He shifted his body so that no one outside could see what he was doing. Then, at precisely six o’clock, he pressed the transmit button of his walkie-talkie radio.
“Come in one, two and three. Over.”
The answers came back almost at once.
“One here. Over.”
“Two here. Over.”
“Three here. Over.”<
br />
“It’s Go. Over,” said the man with the monkey face.
“One, Roger, out.”
“Two, Roger, out.”
“Three, Roger, out.”
The little German looked over his shoulder through the window of the phone booth. Nobody appeared to be taking any notice of him.
It was better this way, he thought. If the authorities did hear the transmissions, and got a fix, he would be gone before they arrived. There would be nothing left to identify him.
A thin film of sweat formed above his upper lip as he changed the frequency before pressing the transmit button once more.
“Lettuce calling caterpillar. Over.”
“Caterpillar receiving you loud and clear,” came back the lilting Welsh accent of Glyn Jones. “Over.”
“It’s Go. Over.”
“Roger. Will maintain radio watch for ten minutes on the hour every hour. Over.”
“If you hear nothing for twelve consecutive hours, abort. Out.”
The German slipped the Japanese-made miniature radio back into his pocket, stepped out of the telephone kiosk and hurried back to the flat.
*
Dr. Walther Hermes came out of the bathroom as usual at eight o’clock, and ran downstairs. He went straight to the kitchen, where his wife would be waiting with the hot coffee and rolls. He opened the door and stopped to stare in shocked surprise at his wife’s deathly-white face… and at the masked faces of the two men who stood there holding ugly-looking, silenced automatics.
There was no point in arguing, and within two minutes, the doctor and his wife were squatting uncomfortably in the back of a van, their hands tied behind them.
*
Professor Ernst Schroeder stopped his car outside the school at eight forty-five and leaned across to open the door.
“Hurry, or you’ll be late,” he said to his young daughter. He kissed her, and added: “Mummy will pick you up this afternoon.”
He sat for a moment, watching the little girl as she walked through the school gates. Then he slipped the car into gear, and was about to pull away from the kerb, when a man ran alongside.
“Excuse me!”
The professor wound down the window.
“Yes?”
“Excuse me, but aren’t you Professor Schroeder?”
“I am.”
“Ah! I thought I recognized you. I’ve seen you at the hospital you see and… and I wondered if you were going there now.”
“Yes, I am as a matter of fact.”
“It’s an awful cheek, I know, but would it be too much trouble to give me a lift? I have an appointment there at nine, and I think I’m going to be late. I overslept.”
The professor laughed. “Jump in.”
“Do you know Dr. Hermes?” the man asked as they pulled out into the traffic.
“Yes, he’s a friend of mine, and a colleague of course. Is that who you have to see?”
“I shall be seeing him, yes,” said the man. “Do you know where he lives?”
“Yes… why?” asked the professor, turning to look at his passenger in surprise.
“Because I want you to drive straight there,” replied the man, pushing a revolver into the professor’s side. “Do exactly as I say, or you won’t be going home to that little girl of yours tonight.”
*
Dr. Otto Schütz came down the steps of the hospital and paused uncertainly.
The driver of a car parked at the kerb got out and opened the back door.
“Dr. Schütz?”
“Yes… but this isn’t my usual car.”
“No, Herr doktor. It’s temporarily out of service. I’ve been sent instead.”
The doctor nodded, and climbed inside. The driver closed the door, got back behind the wheel and accelerated away.
After two hundred yards, he turned left and screeched to a halt. A man waiting on the pavement wrenched open the back door and leapt in beside the astonished doctor. The car jerked violently forward again, slamming the door shut.
“Just sit back and enjoy the ride,” said the newcomer. “That way you won’t get hurt.”
Dr. Schütz eyed the man’s automatic nervously. He said nothing, because he was afraid that if he tried to speak, he would be sick.
*
In an apartment a few steps from SSD headquarters, yet another doctor was looking apprehensively at two silenced automatics. But these weapons, in the hands of masked men, were not pointing at him. They were held, unwavering, at the head of his pretty young wife.
“Don’t worry Dr. Meyer,” a third masked man said. “She will be perfectly safe – as long as you do exactly as you are told.”
*
At ten o’clock, James Dingle, Glyn Jones and Jason Ritchie were crammed into the hut at Checkpoint Charlie, sheltering from the biting east wind.
The hiss and crackle of static from Ritchie’s walkie-talkie suddenly cut out and a voice, which Dingle recognized as belonging to the man with the monkey face, said: “Lettuce to caterpillar. Over.”
“Caterpillar receiving you,” replied Ritchie. “Over.”
“Still Go. Red alert. Out.”
“Christ! We’ll soon know if it’s going to work,” said Dingle. “I’ll phone the Director.”
Chapter Thirteen
At nine o’clock, Gerhard Kohner swiveled his chair so that he could see Mueller, who was standing just inside the door of the operating theater.
“Come in, Erich, come in.” The fat man extended a hand towards the room’s only other chair. “Sit down and make yourself comfortable.”
Mueller walked slowly across the room, and began apprehensively to lower himself on to the seat.
Kohner laughed. “Don’t worry, Erich, the wires aren’t alive… yet. Let’s hope they won’t need to be, eh?”
His prisoner completed the move, and he continued: “Have you decided to be sensible? Have you thought about what I told you yesterday?”
Mueller, hollow-eyed and thinner than ever looked as if he had not slept.
“I must have guarantees.”
Kohner groaned. “Don’t let’s go through all that again. You are not in a position to bargain. Tell us what we want to know and I give you my word that, when we’ve checked the information, you can join your family in the West.”
Mueller shook his head, not trusting himself to speak. He knew he was near the end of his tether. The mere sight of the chair in which he now sat had filled him with nausea. The thought of returning in pain, naked and hungry, to that freezing cell made his tormentor’s offer seem attractive. Even if Kohner didn’t keep his word when he had the information – at least it would be a quick, merciful death instead of a slow, painful one.
It was this last thought that made Mueller realize what a first-class professional job the SSD man had done on him… and the realization stiffened the last of his resolve. He must resist; or die.
Kohner was not angry. There was no need for anger. He could see that Mueller was near to breaking point. He would enjoy the game for a while, like a cat playing with a mouse, and then…
“Here, have one of these.”
The fat man leaned forward, offering his bag of treacle toffees. Mueller didn’t want one; he thought it might make him physically sick. But he took one. Anything to delay the inevitable torture.
The two men unwrapped the sticky sweets.
“That’s right.” Kohner was smiling. “Sit back and enjoy the toffee. I must go into my office for a few minutes, but I won’t keep you waiting long. Just think about what I said. If you tell where the list is, you’ll be back in that nice warm room of yours upstairs.”
He heaved his heavy frame out of the chair and hurried out, leaving Mueller alone with his thoughts… and with two SSD guards who moved silently about the room, fiddling ominously with the various instruments of torture.
It was brilliant psychology. Mueller knew that – but the knowledge ma
de it no less frightening.
*
At nine forty-five exactly, Kohner came back into the operating theater.
“Sorry to have kept you waiting,” he said briskly. “Now then. Have you thought about it?” He stared at Mueller’s ashen face. “My dear chap, are you all right?”
Mueller was on his feet, swaying slightly, holding his stomach.
“You bastard,” he whispered hoarsely. “What have you done? You’ve poisoned me, haven’t you?” He groaned and sank back into the chair, leaning forward, still pressing his hands to his stomach.
“Nonsense. You’re speaking rubbish,” replied Kohner.
“Get me a doctor. I need a doctor,” said Mueller, who had never been so frightened in his life. His resistance was going rapidly now. He knew that, but there was nothing he could do about it. The attack had been so sudden, so devious. While he was steeling himself to endure electric shocks, and other tortures; they’d surprised him with poison. The toffee. It must have been the toffee. But Kohner had…
“You can have a doctor. You can have anything you want – when you’ve talked.”
Mueller nodded. It was useless to go on. He couldn’t hold out any longer. He retched, rocking backwards and forwards in pain.
Kohner pressed the switch of the tape recorder as the prisoner began to talk.
*
It was there, all of it, on the tape. But already Kohner’s smile of triumph was twisting into a grimace of agony as he switched off the recorder. He doubled up as cramp gripped his stomach, spreading his hands across his big belly, as if to catch the griping, collicky pains.
He stared across at Mueller who was on the floor now, in a state of collapse. And suddenly Kohner was afraid.
“The doctor,” he gasped. “Get Dr. Schütz.”
One of the guards rushed out.
*
“Dr. Schiitz isn’t in the building,” the guard reported. “He didn’t come in this morning, according to the duty desk.” He looked at Kohner who, like Mueller was in a state of collapse. “So what do we do now?”
“Try the hospital,” said the second guard.
“I did. He’s not there either.”
“Get Herr Scherl. Quickly!”
A Time for Vengeance Page 7
