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

by William Brown

  They weren’t his biggest problem, anyway. It was time. He only had five or six hours of darkness left; and like Dracula, he must be safely tucked away in his coffin before the first light of dawn. So Thomson set to work on the security fence, putting the tire iron and some of that white-hot anger to use, digging and prying at a seam as if it were Collins’s rib cage. The poor fence never stood a chance. In less than a minute, he had ripped a hole big enough for him to squeeze through and he was in.

  Ilsa Fengler said that Papa worked long hours and rarely left the hangar, so that was where Thomson headed. Thirty careful minutes later, he hid in the scrub just ten yards from the rear of the hangar. Carefully, he worked his way through the shadows until he found a shallow depression at the edge of the circle of light around the rear side, where he could snuggle down and watch. The windows were painted black; but through the thin walls, he could hear sounds of heavy equipment, metal clanging on metal, high-speed electric drills, and harsh voices shouting orders.

  There were two guards on patrol outside. Like good, methodical Krauts, they circled the building around and around, a hundred and eighty degrees apart. Thomson watched one guard walk away from him, up the near side of the building. When he reached the front corner, the other guard came into view at the opposite corner with the regularity of the mechanical figures on a Bavarian cuckoo clock. Thomson kept watching and waiting for an opportunity. Sure enough, his patience paid off when he heard the rattle of a lock on the small door in the rear wall of the hangar and saw the door swing open. A middle-aged man in a long white technician’s smock stepped outside into the bright pool of light, stretched, yawned, and pulled a pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket. With a furtive glance to each side, he slipped a cigarette into his mouth and lit a match, cupping his hands to shield the flame. The technician took a deep drag and leaned against the building, looking up at the stars and exhaling, as the smoke drifted across the face of a big sign hanging on the wall behind him. In bold red letters, it said, ‘NO SMOKING.’ So much for crack German discipline, Thomson told himself.

  Right on schedule, one of the guards came marching around the far corner of the building. The technician smiled and mumbled an embarrassed greeting, but the guard wasn’t buying it. He frowned and stepped closer, pointing angrily at the cigarette in the tech’s cupped hand and the cloud of smoke hanging in the air. The technician tried to argue, but he finally threw the cigarette on the ground and stepped on it, glaring at the stern-faced guard. That did not help. The guard glared back, and the technician got even madder. He turned, yanked the door open, and slammed it shut behind him. The guard watched the door for a moment, shook his head, and then resumed his rounds, turning the corner and walking up the other side of the building. That gave Thomson his chance. He sprinted toward the door and grabbed the knob, twisting it quickly and praying that the technician had been too angry to lock it behind him. The knob turned and Thomson pulled the door open far enough to slip inside.

  He blinked in the brightly lit hangar. His view was partially obstructed by a tall row of wooden crates, but he could see enough. There were dozens of men working inside, each dressed in a white smock. Some were leaning over the workbenches, feverishly working with wrenches and soldering irons, while others were looking up, directing the movement of a slow-moving overhead crane. The remaining technicians were huddled around two long-bed trailers sitting in the middle of the floor. It was easy to pick out the supervisors. In typical German fashion, they were the ones strutting about in the clean, white smocks, scowling, and shouting orders. Whatever they were doing, they seemed in a big hurry to get it done. With the other guard coming at any second, standing in the open doorway was not the place to remain, so Thomson closed the door behind him. Bending low at the waist, he darted behind the crates, and worked his way to a dark corner where he had a better view of the hangar floor.

  His eyes were immediately drawn to the trailers. It did not take too many smarts to realize that the long, fat tubes lying on them were the rockets. They were painted dark green, appeared to be about fifty feet long, and were short and fat with four stabilizer fins at their rear ends. The nose cones tapered gracefully to sharp points. Thomson had been in London in early 1945, and he knew exactly where he had seen these tired old warhorses before. When he closed his eyes, he could still see the composite image of a thousand weary, terrified faces looking up at the sky as the next V-2 flashed into view. He remembered what they looked like, and what they could do. Once launched, they were unstoppable and deadly. With sixteen hundred pounds of TNT stuffed inside its nose, a V-2 could destroy an entire block of steel-and-glass high-rise buildings in a modern city like Tel Aviv. That was with a High Explosive payload. With one of Fengler’s dirty little A-bombs, Egypt could destroy the entire city and render it uninhabitable, changing the political face of the Middle East forever.

  That was when he saw Fengler near the workbenches. In life, the awkward physicist looked very much like his framed photograph. Thomson smiled. Isn’t it funny how some people never change, even after all these years. Perhaps God would not let them. When He created a good joke, the Good Lord preferred to enjoy it for a while. Thomson watched the German strut across the work floor, his head held high and his chin thrust out. He was older now, to be sure, and nearly bald, yet he had the same prissy, wire-rimmed glasses, sour expression, and cold, pitiless eyes he’d had since birth. Yes, it was Papa Fengler. He had just stepped out of his office at the rear corner of the hangar. It had half-height windows all along the front wall, so he could watch the production floor without having to rise from his desk, but that was not good enough. Like any good German manager, he preferred to meddle up close and personal. He had an odd gait, with his body bent forward at the waist, as if he were marching into a stiff gale. With his hands stuffed deep into his pockets, he looked like Groucho Marx lost in a rare serious thought. When he reached the other supervisors, he made a few frantic arm motions and began shouting orders, out-scowling even the nastiest of his men. He turned on his heel and left as quickly as he had come, stomping back to his office and slamming the door behind him. From the expressions on the other men’s faces, it was obvious that Papa Fengler was a very easy man to dislike.

  Farther along the rear wall, Thomson saw a large concrete storeroom. Only a single steel door broke its walls, and on the door was a large sign. In its center, three yellow interlocking rings were painted. As he well knew, this was the infamous international symbol for radioactive material, and Thomson now knew that was where the warheads were located. He pulled Sayyid’s revolver from his rear pocket and slowly worked his way around the row of crates until he could see through the bank of windows into Fengler’s office. Fengler was alone, standing with his back to the door, bent over a stack of blueprints on the drafting table. Thomson saw a clipboard lying on a nearby crate. He picked it up, covered the revolver, and walked straight to Fengler’s office door, busily flipping the pages on the clipboard.

  When he reached Fengler’s office, he pushed the door open far enough to slip inside, closed the door behind him, and dropped below the height of the windows. Fengler heard the noise but was too busy to be bothered looking up. “Klaus?” he snapped. “Where is the other set of drawings on the nose cone bolts? I know you had them this morning… Klaus? Are you deaf, man?” he shouted, finally turning his head and seeing Thomson crouching against the inside of the door.

  “What is the meaning of this. Who let you…” he sputtered, until he saw the gun and froze.

  Thomson found the man’s reaction fascinating. In that one short second, Fengler’s arrogance vanished. His eyes filled with fear as he looked down the gun barrel. “Who are you?” he asked as his eyes narrowed, trying to intimidate, which was not working. Unfortunately, he had always been a better coward than an actor.

  “Oh, shut up,” Thomson answered as he gestured with the revolver. “Turn back to the table and look busy.”

  Not surprisingly, Fengler was not good at following
orders. “You are insane,” he said; sweat popping out on his forehead. “You cannot…”

  “I said shut up, or I’ll pop you right now.” Thomson glanced quickly around the cluttered office, knowing he had nothing to fear from Papa so long as he had a gun pointed at him.

  Fengler turned his eyes back and glared down at him. “Ah, now I know who you are,” he said as his face turned red. “You are that impudent American, the one who kidnapped my Ilsa last night, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, and if you don’t want me to make her an orphan, you’ll do exactly what I tell you.”

  “You will never get out of here.”

  “No?” Thomson chuckled. “I got in, didn’t I? Besides, I’m not leaving alone. You’re coming, too — either with me, or in a casket. Take your pick.”

  “We shall see,” Fengler stated ominously. “This charade will gain you nothing. Kill me if you wish, but it is too late. It took me twenty years to reach this moment, and you cannot stop this, not now.”

  “No? Give me the key to the bunker, Fengler.”

  The German’s eyes bulged and he stepped back against the drafting table. “My warheads? Never! You’ll have to kill me first.”

  “Nothing would give me greater pleasure.” Thomson raised the revolver and aimed it at Fengler’s forehead, trying to look angry and a bit demented.

  As Fengler stared down the barrel into the small black hole, he blinked and quickly turned his eyes away, looking over Thomson’s shoulder. For a split second, it appeared that he saw something on the other side of the door.

  Thomson caught the look; but he was too late, a half-step too late again. He heard a scraping sound behind him as someone slammed the door into his back, knocking him off balance. That was all it took. He tried to swing the pistol around, but it was too late for that, too. Two of Fengler’s technicians stood in the doorway, mouths open and looking surprised to see Thomson and his gun. Fengler did not let the opportunity pass. His arm swept out and he grabbed a roll of blueprints from the top of the drafting table. With a quickness that surprised Thomson, the German physicist flung the roll across the narrow gap that separated him from Thomson. The heavy tube crashed into the American’s chest and knocked him against the wall. Their initial shock gone, Fengler’s two men jumped on top of Thomson, with Papa following right behind like a maniac. While the two technicians pinned Thomson down, Fengler grabbed a fistful of Thomson’s hair and bashed the American’s head on the floor. Then, Fengler began to kick him, over and over again. Thomson struggled to break free, but it was not long before he stopped counting.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Ilsa Fengler lay on her bed, staring out the window into the empty silence of the desert night. The stars seemed so bright, yet so distant, just like her dreams. She was alone in the house, which was becoming increasingly frequent. It did not matter as much during the day, because she kept her hands busy and could tolerate the loneliness. The night, however, mocked her. She rolled over, pressed her face against the wall, and began to cry, praying that sleep would come. From years of practice, Ilsa knew that it usually would. Some nights, however, it refused to come at all. How much more of this could she take? Papa had dragged her from one godforsaken outpost to another, keeping her locked away, refusing to let her mix with the others, especially boys. He always used an excuse about protecting her from something or someone. “They aren’t good enough for you, Ilsa,” he always said. Why could she not make him understand how much the loneliness ate away at her?

  “Soon, Ilsa… very soon,” he would tell her as he tried to placate her. “When our work is complete here, we shall leave in triumph. They will be forced to respect me then. You will see. It will be soon, very soon.” Leave, she wondered. Leave and go where? Did he mean they could finally return to Germany? After seventeen years, her dream seemed as distant as ever. No, she knew he was doomed to wander the earth like the Flying Dutchman, never to return home; and she was doomed to follow along behind him.

  Finally, her soft crying was broken by the sound of a car coming rapidly up the road. As it slowed and turned into their driveway, its headlight beams flashed across the wall of her bedroom. It must be Papa. Hardly anyone else lived in what remained of the old bungalows, and he was working later and later these past few weeks. When she heard the loud, angry slam of his car door, she quickly got out of bed and peeked out the window. How strange, she thought, and so unlike him. He was never noisy, especially at this hour. As he began walking to the house, he was suddenly illuminated by the headlights of a second car coming up the road behind him, driving even faster than he had. It swung into the driveway behind his car. Papa stopped and turned as the other driver got out, slammed his door, and left his engine running. That was when she heard their argument begin.

  It was Major Grüber. Papa turned and walked toward him, wagging his finger in Grüber’s face as they spoke in harsh, angry whispers. Ilsa listened intently. She had always considered herself a kind and charitable person, and could not recall ever hating another person until she met Grüber. He was an ignorant thug from Bavaria who was always leering at her and making dirty comments when he was certain no one else could hear him. How could Papa work for someone that vile? Could he not see what the man was really like? Could he not see the evil lurking behind that mask?

  “Calm down? Calm down, you say!” Papa’s voice grew loud and even angrier. “He broke into the laboratory tonight — into my laboratory, Grüber. He had a gun; and no, I will not calm down. He was after me, not you. He would have killed me, too, no thanks to you or your cursed guards. I remind you that the American was supposed to be your responsibility. The Colonel ordered you to take care of him, did he not? It was your job, and you bungled it, as usual.”

  Ilsa had never heard Papa raise his voice to Grüber before, certainly not like this.

  “I have had enough of your incompetence. I intend to report this entire affair to Colonel Rashid first thing in the morning.”

  Grüber did not respond. Instead, he smiled and shook his head, as if he pitied Papa. “I would not be that hasty if I were you, Herr Doktor.” The threat in Grüber’s voice was open and menacing. “Remember who you are. Unless you intend to squat down on a prayer rug with those vermin — and stay there — you had better not say a word to that camel driver Rashid, if you know what is good for you.”

  “What is good for me? What is good for me, you say? I have been giving that some thought, Grüber, and I have decided that Colonel Rashid might be what is good for me. You see, I am working for him, now, not you. You can tell that to Hoess and to Stuttgart, too. Your time is past; you are finished. All of you are finished.”

  “Do not be naïve, Fengler. You are German; never forget that, and an SS officer to boot. If you cross us, you are the one who will be finished; because there is only one punishment for an SS man who breaks his oath. Even a pencil pusher like you should know that.”

  “Do not threaten me, Grüber. This is not 1942, it is 1962. You need me more than I will ever need you, and so does Rashid.” His voice grew more confident. “Frankly, I am tired of doing your dirty work. What has it gotten me? Nothing. First, you let that Jew inside the compound, and now an American assassin. I was the one he was after! You know that as well as I do. If my assistants had not walked in, he would have killed me.”

  “I want him. I want the American,” Grüber demanded.

  “No! I have him locked up — bound and gagged — and that’s where he’ll stay until I personally hand him over to Rashid tomorrow.”

  “No, you will give him to me, Fengler. Do you hear me?”

  “You cannot have him.”

  “Don’t cross swords with me. I shall carve you into little pieces.”

  “I said no! I will show Rashid who is capable of handling security around here, and who is not. This entire project should have been put in my hands from the very beginning, all of it, not just the warhead. However, you decided to put Schlaerman in charge of the rockets, didn’t you?
Well, my work is finished, correctly and on time — also as usual. But what did I get for it? Nothing! I am not the one who is behind schedule. Schlaerman, Hoess, and you are the ones at fault. You are the ones who should be reporting to me; and that is exactly what you shall be doing very soon. My part of the operation is flawless. You will see. You will all see what my warhead can do. You will all see. Now get out of my sight. ”

  “I want the American!” Grüber shouted at him.

  “No!” Fengler answered as he abruptly turned his back on Grüber and strode away, leaving him standing alone in the front yard, fuming. Ilsa heard Papa’s footsteps echo across the front porch and the screen door slam shut behind him.

  Grüber stood there in a rage with his fists clenched at his sides. He stared at the door, and then raised his eyes and looked up at her bedroom window. It was dark inside her room. She knew he could not see her, but the look on his face made her recoil. His eyes were burning with hatred as he continued to stare at her window for several long minutes before he turned away and stomped back to his car. She heard an angry squeal of tires as Grüber drove away, and the desert night finally became quiet again.

  Ilsa went back to bed and looked up at the stars again. Papa’s words were still ringing in her ears, and tears were running down her cheeks. She knew what they were making inside the hangar. She had always known but refused to admit it, even to herself. To her, Papa was still a simple scientist, puttering around his lab doing research. However, none of that was real anymore — the research, the broken promises, or her forgotten dreams — none of it. As the harsh truth of Grüber’s words sank in, Ilsa felt the terror grow inside her.