by Keith Wease
In addition to the new recruits, there were a few oldtimers like myself at the base, mostly between assignments. There were some new faces I hadn't seen before and a couple more that I had seen and wasn't particularly interested in seeing again. From their reactions they weren't interested in renewing old acquaintances either. That was the normal attitude at the base - you would walk into the canteen and find a couple of tables full with the latest training class, and the rest of the tables occupied by one or, at most, two diners. Oh, we still had a few agents who liked to socialize but, for the most part, we had all learned the futility of developing a friendship with people that might very likely be dead or missing the next time you heard their name mentioned, or whom you might have to leave behind on some mission.
There was one exception, one of Mac's first recruits - the class before mine - named Smitty. Smitty was on permanent administrative duty, the only one of us - "us" meaning field agents - who was. Smitty's job was to coordinate the information coming in on what were referred to as "standing targets" - people that Allied Command wanted eliminated but whom we hadn't gotten around to yet or weren't considered important enough for an assigned target. Mac had expanded this information and instituted a new procedure the previous year, in what he called the "recognition room," in response to developments in both Germany and the Soviet Union. Apparently, Mac's approach to warfare was no longer unique - not that it ever had been. Our profession had roots going far back in history, but in modern times, it was not the sort of profession one talked about or - heaven forbid - officially sanctioned.
Very handy fellows to have around, we killers. You can feel fine and self-righteous about disapproving of us when you don't need us; and you can feel fine and self-righteous about handing us medals when you do - provided we're wearing uniforms. If you don't wear a uniform and pick a specified individual on which to practice your trade, then everyone shudders and screams bloody murder. Someone once pointed out that the Victorians had a thing about sex but had no big problems with death, but modern civilization seems to have it reversed. Well, I told you I had been born a couple of centuries too late.
Actually, although you won't hear the word used too often - Mac likes the word "remover" - the correct terminology for our type of work is "assassin." I did some research once on the subject. It seems there was this bloodthirsty priest or lama or guru or whatever the word was back then, living up in the rocks of ... well, I don't remember where, but it was somewhere in the Middle East. He was called "The Old Man of the Mountain" and had a kind of religion, a murderous kind of religion, and a bunch of fanatic followers. He fed them hashish and sent them out to kill. Over time, they were called Hashishin, which eventually became assassin. That's where the word came from.
Anyway, the Germans and Soviets both had developed their own little bureau of assassins and Mac was now compiling files on them as information became available from the field, British Intelligence and God knows where else. Sometimes I wondered if Mac didn't have his own intelligence network in place, unknown to us and our allies. I wouldn't put it past him and some of his information was so accurate as to be frightening, such as the file on the General's neighbor on one of my previous missions.
I suppose the British had some people more or less engaged in our specialty, but we never saw anything on them. However, Mac had amassed a lot of information on the Soviet and German agents in our line of work, including photographs and sketches where available. The Soviet agents, being our allies, were included ostensibly so we could avoid killing one if we ran into him or her in the field. Actually, Mac had once hinted to me that the Soviet files would come in handy after the war. He had no faith that we would continue to be allies after the reason for our collaboration, Germany, was out of the picture.
The German agents, however, - along with the "standing targets" - all carried standing orders: "Terminate on sight, mission allowing." As the information in the recognition room grew, Mac needed someone to coordinate it and brief us field agents whenever we were on base. That's where Smitty came in. Smitty was probably the only one other than Mac who knew us all. He was invariably friendly and helpful; whenever we got back to base and he saw us in the canteen, he would limp over to say hello and discuss our recent mission, offering congratulations or condolences as indicated. Even the most obnoxious agent liked, or at least tolerated, Smitty, even though there was a downside.
Smitty limped because he didn't have much in the way of feet. They had been operated on drastically by some gentlemen in search of information. Various other parts of Smitty were also missing and there were scars that didn't make him very pleasant to look at.
Mac had given him the job upon his discharge from the hospital - Smitty's backup team had rescued him, albeit a little late - since he was obviously no longer fit for field duty. Don't think for a moment it was just a generous gesture towards a disabled employee. Part of it was, of course, that Smitty had successfully completed his mission before the previously mentioned gentlemen had caught him - Mac wasn't much more tolerant of failure than were the Nazis, and if Smitty had
gotten caught before completing the mission, he would undoubtedly have been sent back to the states.
But the main reason for Mac's decision was that we all had to check with the recognition room before we went out on assignment; we all had to see Smitty therefore, before every job. It was an antidote for optimism and overconfidence, since it was well known that Smitty had been as good as any of us, in his time. He'd just been a little careless, once…
On the other hand, it was nice to have someone with whom we could talk freely without worrying about compromising classified information or revealing too much about ourselves. All in all, it balanced out, because Smitty was also an antidote to the loneliness of the profession, an occupational hazard that both Smitty and Mac were well aware of. Someone had once remarked to me that if Smitty had not existed, it would have been necessary to invent him.
Chapter 22
As often happens during instructor duty, it was cut short by a summons from Mac.
"I suppose you've heard of the new German missiles, Eric?" he asked as I sat down. Actually, I hadn't, which gives you an idea of how insulated we were at the base. If someone there had heard of them, they hadn't bothered to inform me.
"No, Sir," I said. "I know a missile is something you throw or shoot, if that's what you mean."
"The Germans have carried the concept a step further. They've come up with a self-propelled missile which they are calling a ‘V-Missile.’ Apparently, it's a kind of flying bomb with a new kind of rocket motor attached, sort of like the sky-rockets you see on Independence Day. According to the experts, it will revolutionize warfare as we know it, if perfected."
He paused a moment, warming up to his subject. "The things have at least the range of a bomber, but smaller, faster and almost impossible to detect, let alone intercept. They are being fired from inside Germany-occupied territory and exploding here in England with no advance warning. The first ones started about three weeks ago."
The implications were staggering. I could see why someone was concerned. It was a quantum leap, on a par with the invention of the bow, replacing the less efficient spear, or the more modern invention of the firearm to replace the bow. Well, people have always had a nasty habit of inventing a better way of killing other people when the need arose.
When I was a boy I dreamed of owning a certain legendary weapon: the old Colt single action army revolver, in .45 caliber of course. It took some doing since there wasn't much money and, while my parents weren't opposed in principle to having meat providers like deer rifles and duck guns on our modest New Mexico ranch, they still clung to the European notion that while a weapon fired from two hands might be morally acceptable, a one-hand gun just had to be inherently evil; a distinction I still fail to comprehend. But I was a hardworking young fellow and a persistent one; and in the end I wound up defending myself from a lot of hostile tin cans and savage paper targets, not t
o mention a few ferocious jackrabbits, with my faithful, .45 Colt, only to discover that it wasn't all that great. Its accuracy left a lot to be desired, the leaf springs kept breaking under hard use, it was slow to load and unload and, since it had to be cocked for each shot, not very fast to shoot.
The old six-shooter and its more durable and deadly successors had solved the violent problem that had brought it and them into existence only to leave society saddled with more and greater problems, leaving people wishing they could make them go away. The character who finds a way of uninventing the inventions that folks decide not to like is going to make a fortune. In the meantime, we've got the good old weapons syndrome of bigger, better and more deadly. In a way, this missile idea was the next logical step, given that an airplane is a terribly inefficient and expensive - not to mention dangerous - method of delivering a bomb. Why not have the bomb deliver itself?
Mac was waiting for my reaction, so I gave it to him. "It sounds like our side might be in trouble, Sir. How accurate are these V-Missiles?"
He nodded as though that was the logical question, which of course it was. "So far, not very. They've got to calculate the trajectory from the firing point, which doesn't leave a lot of room for errors. From what I was told, this first version kind of drops at random, creating more morale problems than actual damage. The Germans are finalizing the second version, called the ‘V-2,’ which will be more powerful, and should go into production within a couple of months. Even though it will be faster and carry a larger bomb, it is not substantially more accurate."
I took advantage of his pause to clarify a thought. "From what you're saying, Sir, these new missiles are not that effective. They may be scary, but it seems to me that their bombers are more deadly. At least they have a better chance of hitting the right target."
He nodded again. I was making the right responses. "You're right, Eric," he said. "However, you're missing the point. Hitler doesn't know that we know about the missiles and their limitations. It seems that he was relying upon their scare value, which may very well have succeeded, if we hadn't found out about them in time. After all, bombs falling out of the sky with no warning can be very demoralizing, and he was hoping to scare Britain, and possibly us, to sue for peace rather than face the supposed destruction these missiles could wreak."
"Giving him time to perfect them, I gather?"
"Exactly. Now that we know about the missiles, that won't work. There are only two ways these missiles could affect the war effort. One is for Germany to produce and fire enough of them to blanket his targets. That won't happen, for two reasons: We know they have production problems which are limiting their output; and the missiles have to be fired from a fixed launch site, which we can locate and put out of commission with our long-range bombers."
He waited for my obvious question, so I obliged him.
"And the second way is to improve the accuracy?"
He nodded at me once more. I was a prize pupil. Actually, none of it had been that difficult to figure out, once the concept had been explained.
"So I'm told. We've just recently discovered the existence of a team working on a ‘V-3’ version with some sort of homing device built in, based upon a miniaturized radar device. The Germans have an expert in radar who seems to feel that he can develop a system small enough to fit in a missile, and powerful enough to control the flight of the missile. I didn't understand half of what our expert told me, but apparently this new type of radar can determine it's own location - latitude and longitude - with sufficient accuracy to pinpoint a specific building, as opposed to the existing versions which have a hard time finding a whole city."
I was suitably impressed - frightened might be closer to the truth - and asked, "Can he actually do it?"
Mac shrugged. "Our experts admit it's possible, although we are some time away from the necessary technology. Our information is that even some German scientists are skeptical, but that may be just professional jealousy. The point is that we can't take the chance. If the ‘V-3’ works and is put into production, we may just lose this war."
After a reflective pause, I asked, "Who is this expert, and what am I supposed to do to him?" I mean, the background was nice, but I hadn't heard any orders yet and Mac was being just a little too accommodating with all this information. I had a feeling the other shoe was about to drop.
"We don't know."
It dropped. I started to point out, sarcastically, that intelligence work was not my forte, but Mac already knew that. The more I dealt with him the better I knew the way his mind worked. If he was going to ask me to do something like that, he would have approached it differently. So I just waited.
His lips twitched as if he wanted to smile. "However," he said, "we do know who does know. According to BI, one of his lab workers - a woman who calls herself Frieda - has offered to defect and help us to 'rescue' the good doctor from his own folly."
"You mean 'rescue' as in kidnap? I thought we didn't do much of that anymore."
"Don't be tiresome, Eric. Have I ordered you to kidnap anybody?"
"Oh," I said. "I see. At least I think I see," I added. Someone was being clever.
"It seems this young woman is also the doctor's mistress and is still rather fond of him, even though he is ‘subverting his talents for an evil purpose,’ as she put it. She will help us only on the condition that the doctor is not harmed."
I curled my lip. "One of those. Guns are okay, missiles are not. And she's willing to betray her lover and turn him into a traitor, so long as he's not harmed. What did British Intelligence say?"
"BI is convinced she is telling the truth and has promised her that both she and the doctor will be brought to London."
I thought that over and concluded that British Intelligence was not going to be happy, a fact which Mac immediately confirmed. "Although we often help out BI, we do not take orders from them, and a promise by them is not binding upon us."
Actually, knowing Mac, if the success of a mission was at stake, I doubted if any promise was binding. He was perfectly capable of looking you right in the eye and lying his head off.
He continued, "I have been advised that a kidnapping would not only be practically impossible, given the circumstances, but would probably convince the Germans that they are on the right track. On the other hand, the doctor must not be allowed to continue his research."
"So he's an assigned target?" I asked.
"In a manner of speaking. A direct touch might also let the Germans know we are aware of their efforts and consider them dangerous. It was thought that a nice, quiet suicide would be the perfect solution, especially since Frieda indicated that the doctor's last model was less than successful. He might be considered to be depressed over his failure, if it's set up right."
"Did the woman indicate he was depressed?"
"Actually, she said that the failure gave him a new idea which he considers very promising, but is not sharing with his colleagues until he has a working model. Fortunately, that buys us a little time to set it up."
I still wasn't sure I had the entire picture. "A suicide is not the easiest thing to set up, especially with a peace-loving mistress around who is apparently determined to protect her lover."
"My thoughts exactly," Mac agreed. "Therefore, your orders are to make contact with the woman, gain her trust and persuade her to identify the doctor and his location. You will then take the necessary steps to deal with him, and her if the situation warrants it. If you can arrange a convincing suicide, that would be nice; however an accident, some sort of medical problem - fatal of course - or even a lovers' quarrel resulting in homicide and subsequent suicide on her part are perfectly acceptable solutions. I will leave it to your discretion so long as the cause of death cannot be linked in any way to our side. Is that clear?"
"Yes, sir," I said.
Chapter 23
My target was a relatively unknown scientist who had been instrumental in developing radar technology for the Germans. He had
been part of the research team - the major part, to hear him tell it - and had been cheated out of his proper recognition by the egomaniac who was in charge of the team and took all the credit. That was his version and it may have been the truth. His name was Doctor Hans Krueger - he insisted on the “Doctor" - and was a Doctor of Physics. He was also a posturing, egotistical loudmouth full of his own self-importance. He felt he was finally going to get the recognition that he so richly deserved and was willing to tell me almost anything to get it.
I couldn't have picked a better cover. The elaborate papers Mac had arranged to prove my identity had, so far, been a waste of time. Once Frieda introduced me as a writer for the Propaganda Ministry who had been assigned to do a feature story on the famous Doctor Krueger, I couldn't shut the guy up. He waved aside my proffered ID and invited me in as though we were old friends.
I had run into the type often in my pre-war newspaper career. There are some people who just live for the limelight. You break out a camera and you're lucky to get out of the room with any film left unexposed, or open up a notebook and they'll tell you their life story. This specimen wanted it so badly he was almost salivating.
