“No one was sorrier to hear he came back than I was,” she glared at him, trying to keep her emotions in check. “I know my orders.”
“Ah, but you lie so beautifully, Hanni,” he said as he leaned closer, looking into her deep, blue eyes. “Try another one, my dear. Tell me all is forgiven; tell me bygones are bygones, please?” he mocked her. “You sound so innocent, so convincing, like the lovely Ilsa Lund in Casablanca. You have your man and you have your cause; now you must choose between them, and you are incapable of making the choice.”
She wanted to argue with him, but she knew he was right. Despite everything Horstmann told her, she knew Edward was after exactly the same thing she was. That made them instant adversaries, no matter how much she would hate herself for it later.
The Chief Inspector glanced at his watch. “It is already past noon. Our boy has gone to ground somewhere, so I suggest you and I drive out to Volkenrode again and see what that fool Raeder is up to.” He looked at her and paused. “I am certain we have not heard the last of your gallant young Pimpernel, my dear; but you had better pray I am wrong.”
She closed her eyes and moaned. Oh, Liebchen, why did you have to come back? This time, it will cost you your life.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Ed Scanlon’s first glimpse of the Hermann Göring Research Institute came as the thin line of a dull gray dawn slipped over the horizon behind them. The coupe entered a broad, wooded valley, where an old, faded warning sign had been posted on the road shoulder. “Achtung!” it read, with a skull and crossbones for the dim-witted, followed by the words “Security Zone” and “No Stopping” in German. The road then entered the forest and came to a series of twists and turns through a tunnel of trees, before Von Lindemann braked sharply and swung the car into a narrow, gravel lane that suddenly appeared through the trees to the right. It did not need any additional camouflage, Scanlon thought, as the oaks and thick pine forest on each side formed a natural canopy, hiding the road.
“You will not find this installation on any map,” the Major said. “There are dozens of other secret bases from one end of Germany to the other. The High Command began building and camouflaging these in the mid-1930s, long before the rest of the world even considered that another war might be possible. They are well-hidden, with deep underground bunkers and escape tunnels for troops and even tanks that lead deep into the woods, making them virtually immune to aerial reconnaissance and attack.”
A quarter mile down the twisting, narrow lane, they came to an old wooden guard shack complete with a candy-striped gate pole to block the road. The pole was up, and from the dirty windows in the shack to the faded paint and weeds around it, a lot of time had passed since it had been manned. “More camouflage?” Scanlon asked.
“No, the sad truth is, we barely have enough troops to guard the central compound now. They sent the rest of the men to the front in December.”
Beyond the guard shack, Scanlon saw the sprawling facility, largely set back into the trees. As his eyes took in the scene, he felt his heart pounding and his nerves tingle with that keen sense of anticipation. He was alive again! He was not all the way back, not by a long shot; but the rust was slowly working itself loose. He could barely hear the creaks and groans any longer. Watch out, Dorothy, he thought. The Tin Man is on the prowl again.
The once-bustling Hermann Göring Research Institute consisted of dozens of low-slung wooden buildings set between the trees in a dense forest. There was a small grass runway in the central meadow, but it was doing little more than sprouting weeds now. Similarly, most of the buildings appeared as neglected as the guard shack. In its prime, however, the complex included large assembly rooms, wind tunnels, barracks, labs, offices, and a staff of hundreds, including Germany’s finest aeronautical engineers and technicians. Only a skeleton staff remained now, primarily from the jet fighter project, Von Lindemann told him. “When you meet the scientists and engineers, you must make certain allowances,” he cautioned. “Most of these people were a bit odd to begin with — brilliant, but odd — and then they were packed off here to the woods and kept in strict isolation for the past year or two. Some have been here even longer. What little they know about the war and the outside world is gleaned from the official radio broadcasts, which are mostly the manufactured swill Herr Goebbels feeds them.”
“Surely they know what’s going on?”
“Defeat can be a bitter pill, Captain, especially when the only world they see is so peaceful and green, with trees, blue skies, and pretty wildflowers. They hear rumors and third-hand stories from delivery men, of course; but locked in here, they do not have the same grasp on reality as we have.”
“Reality?” Scanlon shook his head in disbelief. “The white contrails of Allied bombers crisscrossing the sky should have given them a hint.”
“Perhaps, but since July 20, when Claus Von Stauffenberg tried to kill Hitler, the national paranoia and resulting denial have gotten much, much worse. Many people have completely retreated into a shell.”
“I take it you were involved with him, with Stauffenberg?”
Startled, Von Lindemann’s head shot around. “How did you…?” He stopped and stared at the American for a moment before replying with a fatalistic shrug. “One of life’s little vagaries, I am afraid. Klaus and I had been friends since childhood, classmates, and you know how incestuous the Prussian upper class can be. However, they transferred me to a new squadron in Mannheim a few weeks before Klaus planted the bomb in Hitler’s conference room in Rastenburg. I was flying non-stop combat missions over France and they seem to have overlooked me.”
“You sound disappointed.”
“He is the most truly honorable man Germany produced in this war. He saw his duty and he tried to carry it out, knowing full well what would happen to him if he failed.”
“What would have happened had he succeeded?”
“One can only surmise,” Von Lindemann paused, thinking. “With the war in more capable hands, it might have gone on longer. The cruelty and barbarism might have stopped, but as for all the rest? Germany would still be losing.”
“Well, if Stauffenberg made it last one day longer, he would have been the most dangerous man you produced.” The Major offered no reply, so Scanlon let it drop.
Von Lindemann drove through the center of the deserted compound, parking his small coupe near the camp office. “Act as if you know exactly what you are doing,” he said with a forced a smile. “Around here, no one questions a man in uniform.”
“Too bad I don’t have a clipboard.”
“Ja, a clipboard and a briefcase!” Von Lindemann laughed. “That would indeed make the disguise complete.” Despite the tension of the past few hours, Scanlon and the melancholic German shared that much at least. “As they say, it is show time, mein Herr,” he added as their eyes met; and for the first time, a thin bond was forged. Hopefully, it would last, Scanlon thought. Hopefully, it would be enough.
In the office, the two men grabbed a meager breakfast of black bread and ersatz coffee before Von Lindemann summoned the handful of remaining senior staff to tell them of the change in plans. Scanlon slipped into the rear corner of the small cafeteria with his arms folded across his chest, appearing half-awake as the staff members entered the room. He immediately recognized them from the photographs on Bromley’s desk back in London. The first to arrive was Rudy Mannfried, a short, fat man with pink cheeks and a high-pitched, effeminate laugh. As surprising as it seemed, Mannfried invented the Me-262’s revolutionary weapons system. With four 30-millimeter cannon built into the nose, plus pods of 50-millimeter rockets that hung beneath its stubby wings, the small jet packed enough firepower to blast a B-17 out of the sky with one pass.
“Pauli, my dear fellow!” Mannfried gushed as he zeroed in on the Luftwaffe Major. “What did you bring me from civilization, eh? Sausage and pastries, I hope. My God, we are out of practically everything in this hell-hole.”
“Sorry, Rudy,” Von Lindemann apo
logized. “I was not there long enough.”
“No? Well, you should have called Göring then,” Mannfried complained loudly. “I doubt that fat fool is going without anything this morning.”
Von Lindemann laughed. “I shall convey your warmest regards to the Reichsmarshal the next time he invites me up to Carinhall for tea.”
“Surely, he could have spared us some crumbs,” Rudy shrugged. “What can he do, send me to the Russian Front?”
“No, but he can have you shot for spreading defeatist propaganda,” answered a tall, gaunt man who stepped into the room behind him. Scanlon remembered that grim expression on the photo of Dr. Eugen Bracht, the Institute’s chief metallurgist. He designed the jet’s airframe and skin, one of the main reasons it could reach speeds of almost 600 miles per hour, a hundred miles per hour faster than any Allied piston-driven fighter planes.
“But the Reichsmarshal loves me, Eugen; he told me so himself.” Mannfried said with round, innocent eyes. “Remember when he pinned those cute medals on us? He even gave me a little hug,” he said as he threw his arm around the taller man’s waist.
“Don’t touch me, you pervert,” Bracht hissed as he pushed him away.
“Oh, Eugen,” Mannfried continued, undeterred. “Those medals looked so pretty, didn’t they? Too bad we cannot trade them for a good Viennese chocolate cake. That would be more to my taste today.”
“Young boys would be more to your taste,” Bracht said, his face as stern as an undertaker’s, “but you’re not likely to get your fill of either one for a long, long time.”
“Eugen, Eugen, let’s not be so spiteful in front of our guests.” Mannfried feigned embarrassment. “We all have our little peccadilloes. Göring knew of mine years ago, and he does not give a tinker’s damn about them. As long as we design airplanes that are better than the Allies, the Reichsmarshal doesn’t care how our tastes run, be they Viennese chocolate, young men, someone else’s wife, or a tall, ungainly metallurgist.”
Bracht’s eyes bulged and his face turned scarlet. “That degenerate Göring might protect you, but I doubt Reichsführer Himmler will.”
“My, but we are testy this morning,” Mannfried said as he turned toward Von Lindemann and Scanlon with a wink. “I suspect Herr Himmler has enough on his plate at the moment; but if you want to telephone him in Berlin, be my guest, Eugen.”
“Are you two at it again?” A new voice chimed in from behind them. From his thin, steel-rimmed glasses and unkempt hair, it could only be Emil Nossing, the Center’s expert on wind tunnel design and aerodynamics. “Brave talk about Himmler, Eugen. As I recall, you both ran off to change your pants when that Gestapo fellow showed up yesterday.”
“Dietrich?” Von Lindemann quickly asked. “He was here? I gave strict orders that no one was to talk to outsiders while I was gone.”
“Then you should have told that to the Chief Inspector, but I doubt he cares much about your orders, Major,” a sarcastic voice answered from the doorway. “And neither do I.”
Scanlon turned and immediately recognized the chief of the design team, Dr. Wolfe Raeder. He was the brilliant mathematician from Berlin who computed all of the engine and airframe drag and thrust coefficients essential to design the control systems. He was a wiry little man in a white lab coat with disheveled hair and dark, manic eyes who looked like he had caught his finger in a light socket. Behind him stood an awkward-looking teenage girl in loose-fitting mechanic’s overalls. She could not be more than seventeen or eighteen years old, Scanlon thought, standing like her father with her fists buried in her pants pockets. From the pale skin, haunted eyes, and equally choppy hair, this must be Christina, his daughter. Raeder strode into the center of the room as if he owned it, with his chin up and his arms folded across his chest. When he saw Scanlon standing in the corner, he paused to give the stranger a quick, appraising glance. “More Luftwaffe help?” he asked suspiciously. “One would think you people had other things to do with your time, like flying airplanes and winning the war.”
Scanlon smiled. “Then it follows that you and your group must be very important to the Third Reich, mustn’t it, Herr Doktor?”
The ploy caught Raeder off guard. He knew he was being played, but his ego would not allow him admit it. “And you are…?”
“Captain Schmitt, at your service, Herr Doktor,” Scanlon replied, with a curt but deferential nod of his head.
Raeder took a second and more careful look at Scanlon, unsure how to deal with this young officer. Accustomed to hostility, Scanlon’s friendly smile made Raeder wary.
“Herr Dietrich was here?” Von Lindemann asked Raeder directly.
“Yes, late yesterday, just after you left.”
“What did he want?” Von Lindemann demanded.
“He wants to move us to Leipzig,” Raeder told him. “He says we are no longer safe here, and told us to begin packing. Orders from Berlin. He will return tomorrow with trucks.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I told him we began packing some time ago, but where we agree to go remains an open question, and a very negotiable one, you could say.”
“You fool!” Von Lindemann glared at him.
“Really! Well, Herr Dietrich makes a very good point about Leipzig. There is no telling who or what will soon be coming through these woods — enemy paratroopers, commandoes, or even common criminals. As for your notion of our leaving here and heading south to the Alps, well, that borders on suicide now.”
“You told Herr Dietrich about our plans?”
“Of course not, Major. He is the Gestapo, after all; but that does not mean he is wrong. In fact, it makes good sense, good sense to all of us,” Raeder said as he glanced around at the other staff members.
Scanlon shook his head. “The Major and I were in Leipzig last night, and that is the last place you want to be. The city has been heavily bombed. There is nothing but death and destruction everywhere, and the Red Army is closing in.”
“Nonsense!” Raeder said. “Chief Inspector Dietrich personally assured us that we will be safe there. He said there has been very little damage in Leipzig. The Russians remain hundreds of miles to the East, held at bay by our valiant troops in Poland, precisely as Herr Goebbels has been telling us on the radio.”
“And you believed that?” Scanlon scoffed.
“Of course. So there is no reason to rush off on some dangerous adventure south with the two of you. The Chief Inspector has offered us his protection in Leipzig until General Patton arrives, well ahead of the Russians. That is good enough for me.”
“Ahead of the Russians? He is selling you to them. Patton’s army has swung south into Bavaria. It is the Russians who will soon be in Leipzig and he knows it,” Scanlon told him as he looked around at the other men’s confused faces. If Dietrich filled their heads with fairy tales about Patton and how he was going to protect them in Leipzig, then he must want them badly. “The news is all over the streets in Berlin, Herr Doktor. Roosevelt made a deal with Stalin at Yalta two months ago. They drew a line on a map. The Russians get Berlin, Dresden, Leipzig, and everything else east of Braunschweig. Herr Dietrich knows that.”
“Everything east of Braunschweig?” Emil Nossing asked in disbelief. “Even Berlin?”
“And us, too?” Rudy Mannfried whispered, clearly terrified.
“Preposterous! Roosevelt would never give Berlin to the Russians.” Eugen Bracht shook his head. “Not even the Americans could be that stupid.”
“More lies from the Luftwaffe,” Raeder exclaimed derisively. “You want to scare us in order to keep us under your control. Who could believe such a story?”
Scanlon looked at each of them in turn. “You’re like the Seven Dwarfs; you’ve lived here in your own little world for so long, you have no idea what’s going on outside.”
Mannfried, Bracht, and Nossing exchanged quick, nervous glances; but they said nothing, no longer knowing whom to believe. Raeder was not as reticent. “You are asking us whether we
would be safer in Leipzig under the protection of the Gestapo and the Waffen SS or out on the open road with two Luftwaffe staff officers and a handful of guards? You insult our intelligence.” Raeder looked at them contemptuously.
It was clear from their faces that the other three did not entirely agree with Raeder, but they did not disagree with him either.
Scanlon knew if he did not take charge now, he would lose them for good. He stood with his hands on hips and feet firmly planted, and glared quickly around the room; pinning each of them with his withering, steel-gray eyes. He warmed up on Rudy Mannfried but saved his best glare for the good Doktor, with a hint of homicidal maniac thrown in for effect. Raeder withered in a matter of seconds.
“All right, you are forcing us to reveal a top secret plan, Herr Doktor, a Führer Order, no less. That means everyone in this room is now sworn to strictest secrecy under pain of death. Is that perfectly clear? The Führer has decided that Group Raeder here, as he now calls you, are critical to the Reich and the final prosecution of the war. He has seen fit to include you in the Alpenfestung, his brilliant plan for the Reich Defense Zone in the Alps, where Doktor Raeder is to redouble his efforts to design a new generation of aircraft. The Führer is moving his own headquarters there next week, where you are to join him. That is why he sent me here, to escort you on the trek south.” Finally, turning back to face Raeder, Scanlon added, “With all of your important contacts in Berlin, I assumed you knew all about this, Herr Doktor.”
“Well… I uh, yes,” Raeder tried to bluff.
“Frankly, I am also surprised that Herr Dietrich is so uninformed,” Scanlon added. “I do not know why Reichsführer Himmler decided not to put him on the need-to-know list. Perhaps he no longer trusts him. So, I suggest you be very careful around the Chief Inspector from now on. If you go with him to Leipzig, he would be taking you right into the path of the Red Army; and you would immediately incur Himmler’s wrath. That is why the Führer wants you to go south and join him in Bavaria, where you will truly be safe.”
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