by John Dalmas
The SS had no doubt checked maps for possible routes to Switzerland. This seemed one of the least likely, but they'd no doubt look into it, and one of the things they'd check would be places where food could be bought.
Macurdy heard a screen door slam. A woman came into the yard, carrying a large basket, set it down beside the laundry hanging in the sun, and disappeared into the privy. Macurdy headed for the house at a strong lope; he'd hardly get a better chance in this village.
Hopefully there wouldn't be a dog.
There wasn't. When he returned to the family in the woods, his tunic bulged with a loaf of rye bread and an eight-inch wheel of cheese. He'd been tempted to leave two reichsmark notes in payment, reichsmarks printed by the British SIS, and issued to him by the OSS, good enough that even a banker with a magnifying glass wouldn't recognize them as counterfeit. But payment would surely cause talk, while as it was, the woman might simply be puzzled, and say nothing beyond her own living room.
He hoped, though, that the absence would go unnoticed until he and his wards were well away. With that in mind, he ordered them back onto their horses, and trotting ahead of them, backtracked a half mile to the edge of the open basin, where a lane ran along the forest's edge, toward the higher mountains at the head of the valley.
They camped two miles above the basin, beside a mountain stream. There was a cattle trail along it, leading to an alpine pasture with what, on his map, seemed to be a cow camp. The map showed not only contours-the terrain-but forest, colored pale green, with openings in white, and buildings shown as tiny squares. The trail they'd followed was marked by a curling line of tiny dashes. In Oregon the cattle would be untended, but here, he suspected, someone would be with them.
Sooner or later, someone would come across the truck and report it, hopefully only after several days. But it might already have happened. Then the SS would know in what area to look. That meant pushing on as fast as they could, faster than Edouard and Berta might think possible.
Dusk had begun to settle, and Macurdy ate with the others, though lightly, appeasing his surly stomach. He'd chosen the hard tough heel from each end of the loaf, along with a slice of cheese, taking small bites, chewing slowly and thoroughly.
Tomorrow was important. They had a long way to go. He could only hope no one would find the truck for a while.
38
Bruno Krieger
The Munich airport felt like summer. Lt. Karl Hintz perspired in his black winter uniform. The only protection from the midafternoon sun was the black command car he'd arrived in, and it was like an oven. If the damned plane had been on time… Or had it been sent to the wrong airfield? Perhaps the officer he waited for had landed at the fighter base.
At any rate here he was, melting into his boots.
A plane approached from the north-most did, here-and grew larger to his hopeful eyes. The hope faded: It was a nondescript, single-engined craft resembling some used for civilian purposes before the war. Idly he watched it assume a landing course and make its approach, flaps down. It lifted its nose, and the wheels hit the runway smoothly, the plane slowing as she rolled, finally to taxi toward the SS parking strip and black sedan. The plane too was black, and now he could see the SS death's head emblem on its fuselage, and a swivel-mounted machine gun by the door.
Apparently, Hintz decided, this was it after all.
It stopped, propeller feathered, engine idling, and a man wearing fatigue coveralls swung easily out the door; a crew member, Hintz decided. Clearly not the important man from Berlin he'd been sent to meet.
Still, the man walked directly toward him, remarkably tall despite round shoulders, and with indecently long arms that hung like an ape's. Hintz stared. The nearer the man came, the more alarming he looked, swarthy as a Greek and lanternjawed, with cheekbones like russet doorknobs. Despite his complexion, the deep-socketed eyes were pale blue. Hintz stared. The creature stopped in front of him, its slight smile sardonic. It had been stared at before.
"I am Captain Bruno Krieger," he said, adding "eil Hitler!" and saluting. The salute, it seemed to Hintz, held something between disdain and contempt; he wasn't sure if it reflected disrespect for the salute or for himself.
The man stood as if waiting, and abruptly Hintz realized he hadn't returned the salute! And neither had his driver! "Heil Hitler!" His heels clacked, his arm shot out, and he almost shouted the words, the driver echoing them.
The pale eyes washed over him, leaving heat and queasiness behind. "Well? Are you going to take me to Major Hauser? Or must I stand in the sun the rest of the day?"
"Of course," Hintz said, then realized his answer could be taken either way, and hurriedly opened the car door for the visiting captain. Contempt, he decided. The captain's tone had definitely been contempt, and directed at him. As they drove away, he thought, Wait till you report to Major Hauler in that fatigue coverall. He will rake you over the coals till you cry for mercy.
Major Hauser did no such thing. He'd never before seen Bruno Krieger, but he knew his reputation. The disgraceful looking troll had been one of General Heydrich's favorites, a hunter and triggerman who, after Heydrich's death, had remained popular with headquarters in Berlin, despite his well-known lack of courtesy. For he was more than a faithful and deadly hound; they were numerous in the SS. Krieger had a reputation as uncannily skilled in tracking, getting close to, and destroying the victims assigned him. There were even some-notably Reichsfuhrer Himmler-who credited Krieger with occult powers. He was said to have terminated, decisively, several conspiracies against important figures, including, it was claimed, one against der Fuhrer.
It was also said that Heydrich had intended to promote him to major, but Krieger had demurred. Promotion, he'd said, would weaken his position. As a captain-a common enough rank-most saw him as the sword of the general who'd sent him, representing the authority of his commander. As a major, that perception would be reduced; some would look at him as having only his own authority. It was also told that when der Fuhrer heard the storyand Heydrich had made sure he heard it-he dictated a letter to the captain, with a copy to his personnel file, expressing his admiration. Thus Hauser was cordial, though maintaining his nominal seniority, and Krieger did not bait him as he had the young lieutenant.
"What can you tell me about this Kurt Montag?" Krieger asked.
"Essentially nothing that was not in my report to Berlin, or in their reports to me. He presented himself as mentally and physically defective, and became the most promising psychic in das Weutische Projekt. Then he was sent to England to make difficulties for Anglo-American headquarters there, using some confidential means, reputedly psychic. But in fact he was an American officer, who then captured the Abwehr's London station chief and his staff. Which of course resulted in a chain of arrests, and collapsed the entire London-area operation."
"A London informant reports that `Kurt Montag's' real name is Chris McCarthy. He is a decorated American Farschirmjager from the fighting in North Africa and Sicily, a man with neither conscience nor mercy."
"Our Captain Reiter investigated the destruction at Schloss Tannenberg. With information from a neighboring farmer and a surviving psychic, he established that Montag-McCarthy returned via parachute, apparently alone, and destroyed the Schloss not only with its entire complement of our people, but with the Voitar quartered there. Our records show there were five tons of TNT stored in the cellar. It was undoubtedly this he used, after transferring part of it to the other wing to ensure that no one escaped alive. All this while a guard platoon was stationed in the building."
"The TNT had been taken there for use in bargaining with the Voitar, but for some reason they lost interest in it. Colonel Landgraf three times requested its removal, but Berlin had not gotten around to it." He shrugged. "The manpower shortage, I suppose. It was certainly not something they'd send interned Balts or Frenchmen to do."
Hauser spread a map on his desk. "Your quarry escaped the Schloss in one of our trucks there, taking w
ith him three of the four surviving psychics: a man, a woman, and a ten-year-old. They left with him willingly. Yesterday, forest workers covered the truck abandoned here, hidden in the forest." He pointed at an X penciled on the map. "Obviously they intend to escape via Liechtenstein. He was undoubtedly provided with military maps, and well-briefed on routes out of the country. So he knows he will have to take one of these." The finger moved decisively, there and there and there. "He will know that with a woman and child, anything more difficult is impossible, whether on horseback or on foot."
"If pressed, he will no doubt abandon the horses first, then his companions, but he will set out on one of those routes. Even so…"
Hauser paused, clearing his throat like a lecturer. "The nature of the terrain and the shortage of men make it impossible to scour the country looking for them. Too much is forest, and there are small, boulder-littered ravines beyond count. But, there are a limited number of places through which he can cross. That is the key."
Again he paused, looking uncomfortable with what he was about to add. "I must mention that the other psychic insists this Montag-McCarthy can make himself literally invisible. I would reject the notion out of hand, except for two things: the havoc he has wreaked, and that he is a certified psychic. Even with confederates inside, to accomplish what he did…" Hauser shook his head. "And it is questionable that the people he took with him could have contributed much. A nurse, an academic, and a child. They are not the type."
Krieger grunted. Listening to Hauser's lecture, he'd gotten a deep, intuitive sense of his quarry. This Montag would not abandon the people with him, of that he was certain. And as for routes-he was likely to select one which men like Hauser would not expect, perhaps carrying the child and bullying the others. As for invisibility- If it was real, Krieger had no doubt he could see through it.
"Anything else?" he asked.
"There was one thing, but Captain Reiter rejects it, and I agree with him. The psychic who informed on them believed that Montag-McCarthy had outside confederates, other Fallschirmjager A small parachute was found caught on a nearby pasture fence. It was marked U.S. Army, and carried fuse and detonators, so we had the surroundings searched. Only a single large parachute was found, concealed beneath shrubs in the woods. There was no evidence, none at all, of any other intruders. And in such an operation, to such a man, stealth is more practical than firepower."
His Captain Reiter is a sound detective, Krieger decided, and seemingly the major himself is not bereft of intelligence. Or integrity; he gave credit where credit was due.
"I am told," Hauser went on, "that you will hunt them from the air. That should simplify matters. If you find them, you need simply fly past and machine-gun them."
"I will take him alive."
"Alive?1"
"I have two squads of our own Fallschirmjager at my disposal.Parachutists. Landing in the high Alps. Lunacy! The air is too thin! "But if this McCarthy is invisible, how will they find him? How will you find him?"
Krieger half grunted, half snorted, and his eyes seemed to glow. "I will find him," he said. "In daylight or dark, I will find him. I always do."
Hauser's short hair bristled, and any doubt he'd had, died.
39
Progress
The four fugitives started their second day before sunup, and by midmorning came to a high pasture, with what in Oregon would be called a cow camp, though here the cows were milk cows, not beef. They bypassed it, keeping out of sight in the forest. Afterward they worked their way up a rocky draw above it, riding at first, then leading their horses. The draw top ed out at a notch, which on the other side overlooked a deep and narrow valley that Macurdy thought of as a canyon. He hadn't been sure, from the map, if they could take the horses down into it or not, but one way or another, they had to reach the bottom.
The horses had enough trouble just getting to the notch. The other side was worse-a steep declivity. Partly the trail crossed treacherous scree that by itself prohibited horses, and partly it crossed open sideslopes, mostly of bare rock, almost too steep for burros. The way was marked by summer cairns, scattered and minimal, mostly just two or three rocks tall.
They had no choice but to leave the horses behind, and travel afoot. Macurdy would have set the animals free, but if he did, they'd soon find the chalet, and the herd girls there would stable or hobble them. Then, if soldiers came searching, they'd know, and capture would be probable.
So he had the others wait, resting, and led the horses back to the last patch of forest, shading a remnant of old snow, dirty with fallen needles. There he took them behind a thickly limbed spruce blowdown, some hundred feet from the trail, tied their reins to branches, and pumped a plasma charge into each beautiful head. It was not the easiest thing he'd ever done. Then he cast his spell of concealment over them, uncertain how long it would last.
Hopefully the herd girls would tell any soldiers that no one could ride horses over the mountain, and after a search of the woods around the pasture, they'd go back. Unless, of course, they found the prints of shod horses, and he'd skirted the trail itself to minimize the risk.
So presumably, if soldiers followed it to the notch, they'd miss the carcasses. Then, seeing what the trail was like on the south side, and assuming their quarry was mounted, they'd conclude that this route had been a false lead.
Unless carrion birds found the horses, and drew the soldiers' attention. He'd seen ravens earlier that day, and an eagle soaring. He rejoined the others and they started down, all of them walking except on the scree slopes, where Macurdy carried Lotta on his shoulders. Instead of ankle-high SS boots, she wore sandals buckled on with straps; the sharp, frost-broken scree would have crippled her. Carrying her on his shoulders gave him a higher center of gravity than was safe, and made a crick in his neck, but there was no place for her on his back. He was carrying the packframe, with the two large, quilted and belted horse blankets stuffed into the drop bag. And neither Edouard nor Berta was physically up to carrying Lotta or the pack, at least not more than briefly. Each carried one of the smaller woolen blankets, rolled, and tied over a shoulder.
At least, Macurdy told himself, it was downhill today. Tough on the feet, of course, but easier on the thighs and buttocks than the uphill grind they'd face later.
Finally they crossed the forested lower slope, and turned west up the canyon bottom, guiding on Macurdy's map, keeping to the trees when possible. He didn't want some herd girl to see them, even though the route was unlikely.
Later they crossed the canyon, wading a swift icy stream, to reach the descending side canyon Macurdy had decided on. It too had a trail, that led steeply up and up to two large high meadows occupying basins, the lower of them with a cow camp. More and more, Lotta rode on Macurdy's shoulders, her trust in him seeming absolute now, though still she didn't speak. Each of the fugitives, even Lotta, had blistered feet from hiking on steep slopes, but they pushed steadily on, no one complaining. Macurdy had promised to heal them when they stopped at day's end. Edouard, although he tried, couldn't entirely believe him, but knew that Berta believed, so he hoped. Otherwise-there'd be time to heal in Switzerland.
As they got higher, the forested and north-facing stretches had old snow, newly trampled by cattle being driven to the high pastures. Eventually, well up on the mountain, they reached the first grassy bowl, with deep old drifts around the edges. At the lower edge was a set of small, steep-roofed buildings. The elevation was considerably higher than they reached that morning, even at the notch.
It was time to replenish their food supply. The stolen bread and cheese were mostly gone, and there were hard miles to hike before they came to the villages and farms along the road to Liechtenstein.
The road to Liechtenstein. There lay the greatest danger, with little he could do about it except avoid attention. Meanwhile they needed rest as well as food. He'd carried Lotta much of the time-most of the time that afternoon-grateful she was small, and Edouard and Berta were a lot more tir
ed than he. He wished he was in the shape he'd been in at Oujda or Chilton Foliat, or Benning or Camp Robinson, but even so he was doing pretty well, tapping the Web of the World. If it weren't for the damn blisters…
Close below the lower basin, he cloaked the others and left them to rest near the trail, then scouted till he found a secluded opening facing the late sun. He led the others there, and they unshipped the blankets. Then Macurdy worked on their feet until, to Edouard's awe, they could actually see new pink skin covering the rawness. Finally Macurdy worked at flushing the fatigue acids from their legs and buttocks; after a day like this, they'd stiffen seriously if nothing effective. was done. With Berta and Lotta, he worked without touching legs or buttocks. Berta he didn't want to excite. As for Lotta he remembered the images in her trauma vortices.
Berta watched everything he did, asking questions, intent on learning. She couldn't see the energy threads, but perhaps with practice… Certainly Kurt's methods were much more precise than those she'd used.
Lotta too had watched and listened, and still without speaking, duplicated his actions. When Macurdy asked her if she saw clouds of light around people, she looked away shyly. At least, he thought, it wasn't fearfully.
When he'd finished his healings, they napped. He intended later to send Edouard and Berta to the cow camp to buy food. In these times, a couple hiking in the mountains might well seem suspicious, certainly if they weren't wearing hiking clothes. But that suspicion would be less for the two of them alone than if they had a child with them wearing sandals.
It was near evening when Edouard and Berta approached the cow camp, Edouard carrying the pack now. The camp consisted of a cabin that housed the herd girls, along with the pans and utensils they used to make butter and cheese; and a springhouse, woodshed, storage shed, two long cow sheds, the hay shed, a privy, and a guest cabin for the men when they came to make hay.
