Cold War Trilogy - A Three Book Boxed Set: of Historical Spy Versus Spy Action Adventure Thrillers

by William Brown

  He crept closer, across the backyard and onto the back porch, taking a few cautious steps to test the old wood. It appeared solid; but he did not need any loose, creaking boards giving him away. With small steps and a light stride, he reached for the doorknob and gave it a gentle push, only intending to create a gap wide enough for him to “jimmy” the lock; but the door swung open. Thomson’s heart jumped into his throat as he realized the damned thing wasn’t even locked. After all, why should it be? With a barbed-wire fence, dozens of armed guards, and ten miles of desert in every direction, who needed locks? They couldn’t be safer out here, could they? The eyes of prying spies were the exception, of course.

  He edged inside the kitchen and stopped, waiting quietly and listening for some sound of life inside the cottage but hearing none. The kitchen was pitch-black, and the house remained as quiet as a tomb. There were no strange sounds, no alarms or growling dogs, and, most importantly, no gunshots… not yet anyway. Satisfied that he was alone, he pulled a small flashlight from his pocket and let its thin beam explore. The kitchen was as neat as a pin. The counters were clean and the evening dishes were stacked in the sink. With the flowerpot and the garden outside, Thomson was almost certain there was a woman’s hand around the place somewhere, and he would bet she was German.

  He took a few steps and passed through an arched doorway into a tiny dining room. To his right, a staircase rose to the second floor to what he assumed would be bedrooms. He stopped at the foot of the stairs to listen. Somewhere above, he heard the faint creak of bedsprings as a body tossed and turned in its sleep in one of the bedrooms. He froze, but all he heard was more silence and soft snoring. Backing away from the staircase, he stepped to his left and entered the living room, or what used to be the living room. Now, it appeared to be an office. There were two desks in the center set back to back and long, cluttered tables against the rear wall. Off to the side stood an old threadbare couch covered with stacks of books and reports. Apparently, they used it more as a file cabinet than to sit on. Books and reports lay everywhere. There were so many that Thomson didn’t know where to start. He looked back at the desks and noticed that one was covered with a mess of files and reports, while the other was neat as a pin, with a stack of paper on one side, several reports on the other, and a line of sharp pencils waiting across the top. They say an orderly desk is the sign of an orderly mind, never one of Thomson’s traits; so he stepped closer, selected the report at the top of the stack, and turned his flashlight beam onto its cover. The paper was old, water-stained, and so covered with dust that the print was barely legible. Still, the words were in German. Thomson tucked the folder under his arm and continued his search, knowing he didn’t have the time to translate it now.

  His thin flashlight beam cut across the far wall; and he saw it was covered with framed photographs, a huge gallery of them. He quickly stepped closer and let his eyes dart over the rows of frames. Most held old black-and-white photos, but some contained ornate diplomas and certificates. The books and reports could wait, he thought, as his light danced among the photographs, searching for the one he knew had to be there.

  “Landau, you sneaky bastard,” he finally muttered with a satisfied smile. Near the far end of the wall he saw the original of the photograph Yussuf had dropped in the spilt gin on his table in Jeremy’s just two nights before. Staring at it in the original, he still marveled at the sour face and the pale skin of the SS officer. Up close like this, from his mousy, almost reluctant expression, one would almost think he was being held at gunpoint. Then again, many of his wartime compatriots soon learned to regret cameras, so perhaps he had a good reason for this look. Still, he looked so banal, it was hard to believe he could do anyone any harm. Thomson felt a shiver run down his spine and turned away and as he realized that he was standing at the very spot where Landau had stood when he snapped that photograph several nights before. Two men had now died because of it — two so far — so there was nothing banal about it in the least. Thomson did not want to make it three.

  He turned the flashlight beam away, taking a quick look at the other photographs hanging on the wall. They told more about old Sourpuss’s life than Thomson wanted to know. A lot of what he saw appeared to be group shots of classes, associations, or faculties, invariably all male, standing in rows on the lawn in front of various academic-looking large stone and brick buildings. Sourpuss was in each one, always looking timid and unsure of himself at the side or rear of the group, always seeming the odd man out. The others appeared proud, laughing, and smiling at the camera; but not him. He was nervous, as if he didn’t fit in and knew it. In the ones where he looked youngest, the men were dressed in civilian clothes. In what looked like more recent shots, they all wore uniforms — Luftwaffe and army for the most part — again, except for Sourpuss. He wore the black and silver of the SS. No wonder his smiles were strained, Thomson thought.

  One particular photo drew Thomson’s attention. It had the same old faces, but they had posed standing on the front steps of a modern brick building, as if they were attending a grand opening. In front of them stood a sign that read “Hechingen…” but that was all Thomson could make out. The rest had been cropped off the print.

  Hechingen. Somewhere in the back of his brain, that name struck a very dissonant chord. Hechingen… Thomson tried hard to remember, but it was right on the edge and kept slipping away. He swore to himself and turned his attention to the row of certificates and diplomas hanging farther down the wall. They were from the Universities of Tübingen and Berlin, as well as the Kaiser Wilhelm Institute. They were big certificates in ornate gothic script with gold seals and red or blue ribbons. Thomson moved the flashlight even closer, trying to decipher the tiny Gothic script, when the light fixture above him suddenly flashed on and the room was filled with light. Thomson turned toward the doorway and found himself staring down the barrel of an old Luger.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Thomson couldn’t see much through the bright glare of the lights except the black muzzle of the old Luger and the shaking hand that pointed it at him. To his surprise, he saw the hand belonged to a woman. She wore a heavy cotton bathrobe, and her other hand clutched it tightly at her throat as if it were her suit of armor. She had obviously been asleep, and her eyes went as round as teacups when she found this dark-clad stranger prowling about her cottage. Pale and nervous, she would have been attractive, except that she wore no makeup and had her blond hair tied up in dozens of those silly pink hair curlers. Thomson’s first reaction was to laugh, but she had that heavy automatic in her hand and looked all business at the moment. Her age — well, he figured she and the Luger were about the same vintage, somewhere on the downhill side of thirty. She had her back pressed against the wall at the foot of the stairs, as if she were guarding the gate of Fort Apache and the hostiles were about to charge. The old Luger was a big, heavy handgun; and she was trying to hold it out at arm’s length and keep it pointed at him. As the long seconds wore on, the barrel began to shake and wobble even worse. Well, Thomson thought, at least she hadn’t used it… not yet, anyway.

  “Hande hoch!” Her voice trembled as she tried to sound firm, but not quite making it.

  “Ja, Ja… Bitte!” he said as he thrust his hands high above his head and dropped the folder on the floor. “Don’t shoot… Uh, nicht schiessen. Okay?” he stammered. “I don’t speak German very well.”

  “How unfortunate for you. Now keep your hands up, or I will shoot.”

  “Well, until you do, how about pointing that thing somewhere else before it goes off. Lord, you scared me half to death sneaking in here like that.”

  “Me, sneaking?” she responded in heavily accented English. “How dare…”

  “Look, there must be some mistake. You see, I have an appointment…”

  “A thief? A thief who makes appointments?”

  “Yes… uh, no. Look, I’m not a thief, and I do have an appointment,” he said, gesturing toward the photographs on the wall, “w
ith him, with the doctor.”

  “Here? At this hour?” She sounded confused. “That is impossible. He would have told me, and it would have been in the schedule.”

  “Then he must have forgotten.” Thomson gestured insistently.

  “Him? He forgets nothing.”

  “Well, it was all arranged by our friends, so go ask him.”

  “I cannot do that. He went to the laboratory in the hangar. He is almost always there now, so I don’t know why you could think he would be here.”

  “I don’t think anything. They told me to come here, but the plane was late; so, it has been catch-as-catch-can. If there’s some mix-up, that isn’t my fault, is it?” He waved a dismissive hand at her and became more and more animated as he took a few cautious steps toward her. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to get a cab to drive you out here from the airport at this hour?”

  “No, no, I don’t,” she answered as the barrel of the Luger drooped even more. Clearly, she was confused. She was also losing the battle with the heavy automatic, and Thomson was not about to give her the time to sort it all out.

  “Look,” he babbled on, “the guy at the gate said if he wasn’t home, I should come in and wait until he got back. The lights were out, and the guards never said anything. How was I supposed to know someone else was home? I figured I’d sack out on the couch until he came home, but you’ve got all this crap all over it.” He lowered his hands and motioned to the stacks of reports on the couch.

  “Crap? That is our research.”

  “Here, let me show you the pass they gave me,” he said as he lowered his eyes, dug his hands in his pockets, and took a few more steps toward her, ignoring the look of panic on her face. “Ah, here it is, right here!” He smiled as his hand suddenly reached out, grabbed the gun barrel, and snatched it out of her grip before she realized what he was doing. When she did, she blinked and stared at him, her eyes filling with fear. She dropped into a crouch, her hands out, ready for the last round.

  “Whoa! Easy there,” Thomson chuckled and stepped back and shook his head. “That’s a lot better. You scared the hell out of me with this thing,” he scolded her, as he examined the old Luger, careful to keep it pointed in her general direction.

  “I should have shot you with it!” she snarled.

  “Now, that’s not a very friendly note. If that’s all you have to say, I won’t even apologize. Go sit on the couch,” he said as if she had hurt his feelings, using the gun like a pointer. “Go on, now. Go sit down. I’ve had enough excitement from you for one night.”

  She went, but she wasn’t very happy about it, moving slowly, keeping her back against the wall, trying to stay as far away from him as possible. When she reached the couch, she squeezed herself between two stacks of books and sat down, looking up at him warily.

  “By the way, I saw your flowers out back. Nice,” he commented in a friendly voice. “I should have guessed that wasn’t the male Aryan touch.” He glanced around at the stacks of books and reports that filled the tiny living room. “I bet he never gets much farther than here, the bed, and the lab. Right? So, what does that make you? You’re too young to be his wife; so who are you — his secretary or maybe his mistress?”

  “I’m his daughter!”

  “No kidding? They never told me he had a daughter. From the expression on that old Sourpuss, I’d never have guessed he had that much passion in him. A long time ago, eh? Duty to the Führer and all that? Now that you mention it, I do see a family resemblance. What’s your name?”

  “Ilsa — Ilsa Fengler.”

  “Ilsa, that’s a nice name.”

  “What do you want?” She slumped back in the couch, her voice drained.

  “Me? Oh, I’m just a tourist. I like out-of-the-way places in the middle of the night.”

  “You cannot fool me, you are a thief! Look at your clothes and that flashlight. How dare you come breaking into people’s homes, sneaking around in the dark like this?” She was starting to get suspicious. “No, I can see you are not a thief after all, are you? You are a spy, that is what you are, another filthy spy!” she shouted, her face turning beet-red. “I knew I should have shot you.”

  “Oh, think of the mess that would have made, Fraulein.” He laughed as he glanced around the small living room.

  “Your little jokes won’t get you out of here and neither will that gun. The guards will catch you.”

  “The guards? Oh, no, they won’t.” He shook his head knowingly, intent on keeping her off balance. “They didn’t stop me from coming in here, did they? Haven’t you asked yourself why? Come on, you’re a bright girl. You’ve been around. Why didn’t they stop me?”

  She bit her lip and her eyes suddenly filled with doubt.

  “Because I wasn’t lying,” he mocked her. “I was sent here, and you should have figured that much out by now.”

  “That is preposterous,” she answered, trying hard to convince herself. “Major Grüber would have…”

  “Grüber? What makes you think he knows?” He cut her off, quickening the pace, hoping she would say something useful before she caught on.

  “But, Stuttgart would never…”

  “Oh yes they would, and you know it. Stuttgart trusts no one: not you, not your father, and certainly not Grüber. Do you?” Her eyes answered that one. “I thought not; and I assure you, he doesn’t call the shots any longer, not after all the mistakes he’s made.”

  “Of course, he has made mistakes. We all have, but you sound like an American.”

  “And you’re German, and some of us are British, some are Swiss, and this is Egypt. So what?”

  “Oh, this is impossible,” she shook her head and mumbled. “Even if they did send you, you have no business…”

  “My dear girl, do you realize how important this project is?” he countered, talking to her as if she were a child, “and things are falling far behind schedule.”

  “That is not our fault, not my father’s, anyway.”

  “How do you explain the mistakes then?” He quickly changed his tone of voice, tearing into her like an angry inquisitor. “Delays? Accidents? Spies? You may call them what you like, Ilsa, but Stuttgart wants answers. Who knows if some of it was intentional, eh?”

  “Intentional?” She almost leaped off the couch at him. “What are these accusations? My father’s work is flawless. It is Höchengler who is in charge of the rockets. Papa has nothing to do with them; so, you go break into his house, if you like. Just leave us alone.”

  So that was it. Rockets! Thomson was stunned. It all seemed so obvious now. The pieces were all there, if he had only put them in the right places.

  “Well, Höchengler is Beckenbauer’s concern, not mine.”

  “Beckenbauer? Who is Beckenbauer?” she asked in growing frustration.

  “You’ll find out soon enough,” he blustered, trying to think, “and I don’t need to be told how very important your father’s work is to the program.”

  “Then why must he waste time on people like you!” she hissed, her voice trembling as her feelings rushed out. “He has always been a loyal party member. He has given you the best years of his life since 1937, and he has done nothing to deserve treatment like this. If you have questions, go to him honestly and in the open. Don’t break into his house in the middle of the night,” she said in disgust.

  “Perhaps you’re right,” he bowed and tapped his heels together like a polite German headwaiter. “I shall go to the doctor right now and confront him with the accusations; so, get your coat. You’re coming with me, Fraulein.”

  “Gladly!” Her eyes flashed angrily as she jumped to her feet. “I cannot wait to hear what he has to say to you.”

  “Neither can I,” Thomson smiled.

  “The car is outside. I will get my keys.” She marched past him to the tiny foyer, grabbing her coat from the closet and storming out the front door.

  He followed her across the barren front yard toward a battered old Fiat. She started t
he engine and gunned it, barely waiting for him to get in before she backed into the road, her face still livid. She ground the gears, but the car lurched forward with a groan and a squeal. Thomson was delighted. The angrier she got, the less likely she would be able to think clearly. She slowed at the fork in the road, intending to turn right toward the big hangars. That was when Thomson jabbed the Luger into her ribs gently but with enough force for her to get the message. “Let’s go the other way this time,” he gestured.

  “But the hangar is…”

  “Nah, let’s try going left, toward the gate.”

  She let the car roll to a stop, turned her head, and stared at him, her eyes big and round.

  “Do it.” He nudged her again with the gun. “Now, Ilsa, if you don’t, I’ll have to shoot my way out of here and somebody’s going to get hurt.”

  “You…!” she spluttered, unable to speak, her knuckles turning white as she gripped the steering wheel.

  “Probably, so humor me. You have a wonderfully big mouth. If you can’t talk us through that gate, then Papa Fengler is going to be minus one precious daughter. I doubt you care, but think of him. He’d tell you to do what I say, wouldn’t he?”

  “You are insane!” She glared at him, but she dropped the car into gear and turned toward the gate.

  She drove right up to the barrier, skidding to a halt, and took out her wrath on the two Egyptian guards. “Open the gate,” she shouted through the window. “You know who I am, Faisal; so open it. I’m in a hurry.”

  The Arab began to raise the pole but stopped when the door to the guardhouse swung open. It was the burly German sergeant. Thomson poked her with the gun again and whispered, “You’re doing fine. Just keep up the good work, Ilsa.”