by Keith Wease
It was a big black Mercedes I'd stolen outside Loewenstadt, with a six-cylinder bomb under the hood, a four-speed transmission as smooth as silk, and a suspension as taut and sure as a stalking tiger. A few miles out of town I let it out a bit. When I glanced at the speedometer - on a dirt road, yet - the needle was flickering past a hundred and eighty kilometers per hour, which translates to a hundred mph and some change. And I'd thought I was kind of babying the heap along.
It almost scared me to death, but for the rest of that job I was known as Hot Rod, and all driving chores that came up were left to me without argument, although I could get an argument from that bunch of prima donnas on just about any other subject.
Well, I never saw any of them again, and some of them hated my guts and I wasn't very fond of theirs, but we moved our sniper into position and made our touch on schedule, so I guess it was a pretty good team while it lasted. Mac didn't believe in letting them last very long. One or two assignments, and then he'd break up the group and shift the men around or send them out to lone-wolf it for a while. Men - even our kind of men - had a perverse habit of getting friendly if they worked together too long; and you couldn't risk jeopardizing an operation because, despite standing orders, some sentimental jerk refused to leave behind another jerk who'd been fool enough to stop a bullet or break a leg.
I remembered solving that little problem the hard way, the one time it came up in a group of mine. After all, nobody's going to hang around in enemy territory to watch over a dead body, no matter how much he liked the guy alive. I'd had to watch my back for the rest of the trip, of course, but I always did that, anyway.
I was hoping to get a chance to try out some of Hitler's new roads, but progress seemed to have passed by this particular part of the country. By the time we arrived at the town Mac had described, never mind the name, we were suitably dusty and travel-worn. We checked into the hotel and found that they had been properly notified of our arrival and had accommodations prepared - four rooms. It seemed the German Army operated similar to our own. Our three officers each rated their own room, while we lowly enlisted types were forced to share one. I made a mental note to ask for an officer role on my next undercover assignment, not that Mac would pay attention to any such request. Assignments were strictly on a mission-requirement basis, and officers were usually too high-profile. You attracted less attention as an enlisted man. Actually, I didn't mind it so much except for sharing accommodations - I like sleeping alone, or at least choosing my own roommates.
After getting settled into the hotel, Herman and I did a quick reconnaissance of the General's home and found the neighboring house Mac had described to me. It had the right vantage point and was located just over a hundred and fifty yards away. Perfect. I had to admit I was impressed with whoever was responsible for the intelligence work on this job. The neighbor was, I was told, a widower who lived alone and was somewhat of a recluse. The only other house in sight was far on the other side of the General's. It was a nice quiet street and I didn't foresee any problems and we headed back to the hotel to brief the others.
Our primary target was a Luftwaffe General who, our intelligence said, was the most likely candidate to replace another General as commander of a top secret German project, so secret we couldn't be trusted with the details. The current commander was scheduled to get sick and die in the very near future, and Allied Command didn't want our particular General to succeed to the post.
As Mac had put it during my briefing, we couldn't add much to the total casualty count of the war, but we could make an impact all out of proportion to our flyweight status. "Wasps, Eric," he had said. "That's what we are. A wasp doesn't weigh very much and doesn't even have that powerful a sting - it may hurt, but it certainly isn't fatal. Most of the time you probably just ignore a wasp. But take a certain set of circumstances, say four big men driving down the highway at a high rate of speed. Let that wasp fly in the window and start darting around. It is possible for that wasp to so distract the attention of the men that the driver loses control of the car, drives off the road and crashes into a tree.
"When the dust has settled, four men are dead, a two-ton vehicle is totally demolished and the wasp flies gently out the window to freedom, leaving behind no evidence whatsoever of the cause of the accident. If one or more of those men are important enough, a major impact on history had been accomplished by an insect weighing a fraction of an ounce."
I had to admit it was an intriguing analogy. Matthew Helm, wasp. Well, I've been called worse things. The main difference was that what we did was not an accident, no matter how distracting it might be to the enemy. It was nice to think what we were doing was that important, but it would have been nicer to know what the hell we were accomplishing most of the time. We had to kill this General, someone else would kill another General, and the result would help the war effort in a way we weren't trusted to know.
From then on it was absurdly easy. That night the General was having a party out on his patio in the spring weather. We pulled up a short distance away from the neighbor's house, approaching from the direction opposite the General's and parked just off the road, hidden from view by the trees. As planned, Jacob and Thomas got out and went to the front door while the rest of us stayed in the car.
Within forty-five minutes we heard the muffled sound of two shots, evenly spaced. As our cover story required, we pulled out on the road and drove to the front of the neighbor's house. Just as we pulled up, there was a third and final shot. Herman and Brent got out and stood guard with two brand-new German MP40s at the ready. The MP40 is not as nicely made a firearm as the MP38 that preceded it, but was much easier and cheaper to manufacture. It's an ugly beast. I've seen handsome rifles and truly lovely shotguns - the British make some real beauties - but I've never seen a good-looking machine pistol, although I'll admit the old Thompson with the drum magazine had a certain brutal charm. But the misshapen little killing machine, the MP40, was a well-tested and reliable piece of equipment.
We waited, keeping an eye on the General's house. No one came out. We could see the back corner of the patio, where several people were forming a knot over what we hoped was the General's body. No one seemed to be looking in our direction, although with the light in their eyes and our car in darkness, it was unlikely they would be able to see us. After sweating it out for what seemed like several minutes, but was probably no more than thirty seconds, Jacob and Thomas came out of the door sans the scoped sniper rifle Thomas had carried inside and the handgun that Jacob had stuffed into his waistband.
Brent opened the back seat door, the signal that we were still clear, and followed them into the back seat while Herman climbed in beside me. It was my call at that point and I decided upon the least exposure, not knowing how much time we had before someone came out. I quickly made a U-turn and headed back the way we had come. As we turned the corner out of sight of the house, Brent confirmed that we were in the clear. Breathing a collective sigh of relief, we headed for the main road out of town, toward France and our rendezvous point, some three days away.
Once we reached the outskirts of the city, to break the silence, I finally asked, "How'd it go?"
I immediately regretted the question. I should have complimented them on a good, clean job - or even better, kept my mouth shut. As I figured, Jacob took offense.
"What do you think?" he retorted. "You think you're the only one who knows his job? It went perfectly. Thomas got the General with his first shot, the second was just insurance, and I took care of the lousy Nazi as planned."
As I've said before, temperament. Jacob had made it obvious he felt he should have been in charge. I might modestly mention here that I had been getting a reputation as Mac's fair-haired boy - no pun intended - who was sent in on the tough ones. My associates being who they were, some resentment was natural. Also, as I mentioned earlier, I had been forced to shoot one of our own on a previous mission just so two idiots didn't get us all killed trying to carry the guy out.
The fact that he was dying anyway didn't matter to some of our more tender-hearted members. I'd only heard of one other agent who'd made the same decision since then, and he was right here - good old fanatical Jacob, who wasn't any more popular than I was with the rest of the group.
Well I didn't like Jacob either, but not because he'd killed one of us. When I first met him, back in London in Mac's office, he'd seemed a little intense and arrogant, but that was pretty usual around there. Then he'd turned his head and looked at me; and I changed my mind about him abruptly. He had those nice, clear, blue, Scandinavian eyes; but they didn't really see me. They didn't see anybody. They were fanatic's eyes that saw only a shining cause, a glorious goal in the remote distance towards which this boy was marching; and if he had to kill you and wade through your blood to get there, that was your problem. I don't think I scare more easily than the average guy, but true believers always give me chills, regardless of what they happen to believe in at the moment. There is no reason or mercy, and more important, there is no humor in them.
I guess Mac had to work with whatever material was available and I had to admit that you probably couldn't find a better candidate if you were looking for the killer instinct. However, this guy had a big hate going and viewed all Germans as Nazis. Although his appearance was a little out of the stereotypical movie ideal - he was tall and blonde with Nordic features - I guessed from his code name that he was Jewish. Well, I wasn't any more thrilled than he was about the genocide going on in Germany and Poland, but hating all Germans for the actions of a relatively small group of butchers seemed almost as irrational, to me at least.
I think that's why Mac had sent Jacob along with us. Our plan was, as usual, to try to cover our tracks. Whenever possible, we tried to make our operations seem like random acts, rather than cold-blooded assassinations. We didn't want the Germans to get the idea that we even existed, especially after the rumors resulting from the aborted attempts on Hitler. Actually, the plan was a little more cold-blooded than usual. An innocent neighbor - we never did know his name - was being set up to take the blame. It actually served two purposes, because we couldn't very well leave him behind to provide descriptions.
That, of course, had been the purpose of the third shot. Our experts had somehow obtained a sample of the neighbor's handwriting and other experts had forged a simple suicide note, brief and to the point: "God forgive me. General"(classified) “was a traitor to the German people." I thought that was a nice touch. It might be cause for some investigation of the General's friends and associates - Hitler was notoriously paranoid. Obviously a suicide note required a suicide, so Jacob was assigned the job of shooting the neighbor with the pistol he had brought along for the purpose.
The idea was that the neighbor would be discovered dead by his own hand, both the pistol and the rifle found in his bedroom beside him, and the note tying it up in a pretty package. Any questions concerning how a peaceful citizen - there was no evidence that he was a Nazi, despite Jacob's epithet to the contrary - had obtained a scoped rifle and a military sidearm, not to mention where he had learned to shoot someone - twice - at a hundred and fifty-yard range, would be lost in the shuffle. When dealing with the authorities, try to give them a nice, simple solution to a problem. They'll refuse to let it be complicated by contradictory information.
The embarrassed silence that followed Jacob's remark told me that the others were still uncomfortable with the death of the neighbor. As for me, I was just tired. I'd been driving most of the day, had only managed a short nap before heading out for the job, and was now driving again. Weariness just served to anesthetize my conscience, if I had one, which wasn't likely. Mac had done his best to amputate it. It was, he said, a handicap in our line of business.
Resisting the impulse to blast him, I replied, "Hell, I was just making conversation, Jacob. We all know you're good at your job. Nobody was questioning that."
Mollified, he mumbled, "Sorry, I was overreacting." I could feel the tension leave the car.
Just to cover all the bases, I said, "Nice shooting, Thomas."
Thomas was perhaps the more likeable of the group. He had a quiet air of confidence without the arrogance that so often develops in people who operate outside the law with immunity. He never said much unless there was a point to it. I had decided that I'd welcome him on any future team of mine, but I never got the chance - he went missing, presumed dead, a few months later. It should have been Jacob.
The other two were no prizes so far as I was concerned. Herman was still new enough in the business to be affected by his conscience - he kept looking at Jacob and me as though he was trying to discover where we hid the horns and tail. Brent was British, with that supercilious demeanor that I never could stand and one that Americans often encountered in England. He seemed competent enough, but we cordially disliked one another - the British are polite enough - even though we were able to work together. Actually, to give him credit, I don't think I would have been able to carry it off as well as he did if the situation had been reversed and he was in charge.
In other words, it was a fairly typical team for our outfit.
The papers that Mac had provided for us were official enough that, when we were forced to travel on a main road, they got us through any checkpoints we happened upon. We had one bad moment outside Metz, near the French border, when one guard held us up while he made a radio call. It seemed to take him forever and we were about ready to shoot our way clear when he came back with our papers, apologized for the delay, and waved us through.
For the most part we stayed on back roads, stopping in small towns to eat and sleep. It's pretty country and, under other circumstances - say, no war and more desirable companionship - would have made for a great little vacation. All in all, my first mission into Germany was a little anticlimactic. Our biggest problem wasn't the enemy, but rather gasoline. It was in short supply and, while we had the proper authorization papers, all the papers in the world couldn't buy gas that didn't exist. More than once we were down to fumes, having exhausted even the three five-gallon jerry cans in the trunk, and several times we stopped at night to siphon some from a vehicle some poor soul had left unattended.
Four days after making our rendezvous, we were back in London, having left the Mercedes in the hands of the Resistance. I had gotten fond of the thing and hated to leave it, finding myself wondering just how I could afford one once the war was over. I wasn't one to bear grudges, assuming we won the war, and the Germans built some of the finest automobiles in the world.
After our debriefing with Mac, we left in different directions. After being cooped up together for so long, no one was anxious to have a celebration drink or dinner, including me. I did check with Mac to see if Tina was in town, but she was still on her mission, whatever it was. I said to hell with it and went back to the base to see if I could set any records for sleeping.
Chapter 19
"Have you ever heard of Emil Taussig, Eric?"
As was standard in Mac's office, he used my code name. Also standard was the window behind his back, making it difficult to see his face, other than the startling black eyebrows framed by the carefully barbered gray hair. He wore his customary gray flannel suit - this one in a charcoal shade - a neat white shirt, a conservative silk tie and he may have looked like a well-preserved middle-aged banker or businessman to some people, but he'd never look like that to me. I happened to know that he was one of the half-dozen most dangerous and ruthless men in the world.
"I don't believe ... on second thought, I do remember something about him from my surveillance training class. Wasn't he the Jewish gentleman in Stalin's undercover apparatus? An expert in surveillance techniques?"
"He was, and still is, although he's carried it a step further." Mac pushed a folder across the desk to me. "Read, memorize and destroy. You'll find some interesting variations and proposals in there. I wouldn't mind having him on our team - or dead," he added grimly.
I looked up from the plain
manila folder. I suppose in another office in another agency, it would have been marked Top Secret, but Mac didn't bother with such pompous nonsense - our whole operation would have been classified Top Secret, except that, for all practical purposes, we didn't exist - on paper at least.
"Dead?" I asked. "Are we going after Russians now?"
"Soviets, Eric," he said with a disapproving look. "Our besieged allies prefer that term. And no, we are not targeting Mr. Taussig, we are merely stealing one of his ideas. I doubt that the gentleman - using the word advisedly - will object, even if he were to somehow discover this practical application of his theory."
"And that is ...?"
"Taussig has been advocating a multiple shadow technique as a substitute for open military action. The actual implementation of such a technique has been temporarily interrupted by Germany's invasion of the Soviet Union; however, if he survives, his ideas are going to prove troublesome to some countries, possibly including ours." Mac shook his head, whether in admiration or disgust, I couldn't tell. Knowing Mac, it could have been either.
