by Nick Carter
Outside, piles of material had been laid in neat rows with narrow aisles between them. Carter stood in the middle of one of the aisles trying to decide which way to try next, when a hoarse toot sounded behind him. He jumped just in time to avoid being run down by a forklift loaded with machine parts.
"Vorsicht, Jungen!" shouted a hard-boiled old man at the wheel, as he pulled up to a halt.
"Where is the assembly plant?" Carter shouted.
The old man turned, dropped his load expertly in its place, and backed up next to Carter. "New here… Mueller?" he asked, peering at the ID badge.
Carter nodded.
"Get on! I'm heading over there now."
Carter got a foothold, and they took off through the forest of machine parts, some piles of plastic piping, and several very large castings. The old man was an expert at getting around tight places, and within minutes they were rolling into a busy, brightly lit section of the factory, filled with huge hulks of machinery. The brilliant pinpoint lights of welding torches shone everywhere. Along the ceiling high overhead, a massive crane moved down the room. Dangling from the crane's cable was an enormous hollowed-out half-cylinder. Carter recognized it as the outer casting of the pump he was looking for. They were building another.
He shouted his thanks to the old man and jumped off the forklift, which continued across the assembly plant and out the other side. The pump casting overhead disappeared behind a barrier of corrugated iron that cordoned off one section of the work area. Along the barrier the stenciled word VERBOTEN appeared every few feet. The only gap in the barrier was the ceiling-high door through which the crane had passed. Beside the opening was a security guard, nodding at each man who came or went from inside. Personal recognition. Carter thought with a sinking feeling.
It would take some maneuvering to get around the guard, but he had come this far unchallenged; he wasn't going to stop this close to his goal. Yet he couldn't afford to have the alarm raised. He'd need time to take his photographs and then to get out with the film. He was going to have to be very careful.
He turned and started down the aisle in the opposite direction when he saw three men inspecting the spot welds on a section of pipe. One wore work clothes and the white hard hat Carter assumed was a foreman's. The second was in a business suit, and between them stood a taller man wearing a light jacket and slacks, and a white hard hat. He half turned, the harsh fluorescent light glinting off a lens over one eye.
Ziegler.
Carter retreated, walking hastily across the work area, cursing his luck. Ziegler had lost him in Buenos Aires, and he had run here to Germany to make sure nothing interfered with the work he had ordered. Goddamnit! He was the one man in Germany at this moment who could recognize him.
He hurried past an extruding machine, shooting out long sections of plastic piping, and past some other machinery whose purpose he could only guess at.
Overhead, the crane's empty cables sailed by. He followed the arc of their flight and saw the second half of the pump casting waiting by the huge outer doors. Two men stood in front of it, waiting.
He stepped up his pace, overtaking the cables, but not moving so fast as to attract any attention. Then he slipped around the huge pump casting to the inside, between it and the wall.
The huge hulk was shaped more or less like a teapot with three spouts: lower, middle, and upper. He tossed his lunch pail aside, grabbed the lip of the lower spout, and hoisted himself inside, just pulling his feet in as the cable's hook clanged noisily on the outer surface of the casting.
In a few minutes the cables were secured, and Carter felt the weightless surge as the casting swept into the air.
A panorama of the floor passed by the angle of his view from the spout as the massive piece of metal swung lazily on the chain. A minute later he could see the iron barrier, and the casting began to descend.
The pump hit the floor with a jolt, thrusting Carter deeper into the spout, almost into the main body. Then someone was directly below him as the cables were unhooked. They were saying something, the words coming only indistinctly to him where he lay.
After a few minutes the voices faded, and there were only the factory noises for an hour or two after that. At first he had feared that the two parts would be assembled immediately, and he would be discovered. But now he wondered how long it would be before he could get out of there.
As if on cue, a loud buzzer sounded, and gradually machines stopped, lunch pails rattled, and he could hear the men tramping away from the shop. Dinner break, he guessed, and in a few minutes the factory was silent.
Carter inched his way into the tank, and when he was clear of the spout, he stood up. A guard, seated by the door, was just visible from around the edge of the pump casting. The man was reading a magazine as he ate his dinner.
Carter took out his camera and, careful to make absolutely no noise, took several photographs of the pump casting he was standing inside of and of its mate on the other side of the shop floor.
He stepped out of the casting and, keeping it between himself and the guard, moved through the shop area, snapping photographs of the equipment and gears that evidently were to be installed inside the castings.
When he was finished, he stuffed the camera back in his pocket and went around the far side of the casting in which he had ridden.
The guard was still engrossed in his magazine. Carter picked up a large chunk of slag from the floor and threw it across the large shop. It clattered off the side of the twin casting.
The guard jumped to his feet, the magazine falling to the floor. "Was ist?" he shouted. He took a couple of steps forward, then hurried across to the other casting.
When he was around the opposite side. Carter hurried out into the main shop, then sprinted across toward the main doors leading outside. Suddenly in the wide doorway a knot of men appeared. At the forefront was the steel worker whose clothing he had stolen. He looked angry.
"Damn," Carter swore. He wheeled a hundred and eighty degrees and headed back toward the iron barrier. Just then the guard came out.
"Here, what are you doing?" the guard shouted, his hand on the butt of his automatic.
They asked me to come fetch you, sir," Carter said, pointing to the men across the factory.
The guard looked uncertainly that way.
"You'd better hurry, sir. They're mad."
"Verdammt," the guard swore, and he headed across the factory as Carter sprinted in the opposite direction to the left of the iron barrier.
At the rear of the building he went through a set of swinging doors into a packaging area. Three men in carpenter's aprons looked up from their dinners as Carter shot past.
Somewhere behind him an alarm bell sounded. Up ahead loomed the loading dock where flatbed rail cars stood waiting to haul the finished equipment to Bremen for shipment west. Powerful cranes stood by to lift the heavier pieces onto the cars while men with thick chains would batten them down.
The men out here were eating as well, but some of them stood up and were looking past him.
"What are all the alarms about?" one of them asked as Carter emerged.
"I don't know," Carter shouted, passing behind the car. "They don't tell me anything."
On the other side of the track was a grassy field that ran a hundred yards out to a series of old storage sheds and buildings adjacent to the perimeter wall.
He headed across the field at a fast trot as someone shouted something a! him from behind. He ignored it but picked up his speed.
A shot was fired, and he began zigzagging across the field, keeping low as more shots were fired.
Halfway across the field he pulled out his Luger, rolled to the left, then scrambled up on one knee and squeezed off four shots in rapid succession. Two of the guards went down, and for a moment, at least, the firing stopped.
He jumped up and made it the rest of the way to the storage sheds. He ducked behind them, then went inside the larger one.
The oblong of d
im twilight from the doorway revealed piles of old motors, stacks of pipe, and other old equipment rusting away.
He closed the door and started down the length of the shed, whose rear wall was formed by the brick of the perimeter wall, looking for a break, perhaps a wooden door or some weak spot.
Light appeared behind him as the door swung open again and a shot sounded, the bullet ricocheting off a metal object to his left.
He hurried deeper into the darkness as other shots were fired, then someone switched on a flashlight. The guards were framed for easy targets in the doorway, but he had not come here to kill anyone. He had come to get information. He had it, and now he merely wanted to get free.
Another shot rang out from behind. They were firing at random, not able to see anything because of the darkness.
Carter came to the metal door set into the thick outer wall, A rusted, ancient padlock held it closed.
He checked his Luger. There were only five shots left. Carefully he aimed to the left of the doorway behind him — he was certain there were no guards standing there — and squeezed off three shots. Someone shouted, and they all took cover.
He turned, stood back, and fired two quick shots at the lock, the second one springing the rusted mechanism.
He holstered the gun and put his shoulder to the door, the ancient hinges giving way very slowly, until he had the door open about a foot, just enough to squeeze out.
Several more shots were fired toward him, these much closer, but by then he was outside and running down the street.
His first thought was the worker's Volkswagen, but the man had been with the guards; they'd have the car staked out. So he headed in a dead run around the corner toward his own car.
Another shot rang out behind him from the metal door through which he had just emerged. Damnit, he hadn't thought they'd shoot at him out here, on a public street.
Down the street a garbage truck turned the corner, the driver obviously in a hurry. The big truck tipped to the side under the strain of the acceleration.
Carter sprinted down the opposite curb as a car passed, and then he was behind the rapidly accelerating garbage truck. He grabbed the handrails at the back and swung aboard, keeping well to the outside so the guards pursuing him would not have a clear shot.
The truck lumbered around the corner, and Carter jumped off as it passed his car. He had his keys out and was racing around to the driver's side when two vans pulled up, each disgorging a half-dozen armed men. He pulled up short. The odds had just gone through the ceiling.
He raised his hands as Ziegler got out of the lead van and came toward him. The bald man did not look happy.
Eight
The tires crunched over what could only be crushed stone. And the air, Carter realized, was much too sweet for a city. They had to be outside in the country somewhere.
The car turned left and began ascending a steep hill punctuated with tight curves. When they hit a level spot, they stopped.
The two men in the front got out, and the driver opened the rear door. "Out!" he shouted in German. He reached in and grabbed Carter by the arm and pulled him off the back floor of the car.
The air was cool here, laced with a pine scent. The driver and the other man guided the blindfolded Carter across a grassy area, and then they started up a steep set of stairs. Carter stumbled purposely on the first step, falling to his knees.
"Scheisse!" the driver muttered in disgust. He cut through the cloth blindfold and pulled it away. Light flooded Carter's eyes, blinding him for a moment. He turned his head away until his vision began to return to normal and he was able to see the outlines of the mountains, the sun sparkling off the snow at the higher elevations. August. Still snow. They had to be many miles from Mainz.
"Raus!" the driver snarled, and they started up again.
High above, a small chalet was set into the face of the cliff.
* * *
"Kirschwasser?" Ziegler asked, opening a bottle. Carter stared sullenly into the crackling fire. The general poured himself a drink, then came back to where Carter was seated. The driver and the other one stood by the door. They seemed bored.
"Do you prefer German, or would you rather speak in English?" Ziegler asked, taking a seat across from Carter.
Carter held his silence. If he could get the man angry, he might make a mistake.
"German, then," the man said. "Apparently you are fluent with the language, whereas my English… well, I have been lax over the years. "Ziegler took a sip of his drink. He seemed expansive. "The last time we talked, you represented yourself as a reporter. We checked with Amalgamated Press and found, of course, that you are on the payroll. But I think you are more than a mere reporter. Your facility with weapons suggests you have had training."
Carter looked nonchalantly out the large plate glass window which afforded a spectacular view of the mountains.
"I get quite cross when I am ignored, Herr Carter," Ziegler said. There was a slight edge to his voice.
"Untie my hands," Carter said, looking at him.
"Very well." Ziegler motioned for the men at the door. The driver came over and cut the bonds holding Carter's wrists. Carter brought his hands around in front of him and rubbed his wrists to restore the circulation. His fingers were numb.
"I'll have that drink now," he said.
"A glass for Herr Carter," Ziegler told his driver.
The man went to the bar, poured a drink, and brought it over. His face was devoid of expression, his eyes hooded.
Carter sipped thoughtfully. It tasted harsh yet bracing. If there were any drugs hidden in the drink, he couldn't detect the taste. "Quite a setup here. Herr General," Carter said. "Your Berghof?"
"You might say so," Ziegler said. "But that was another war in another time. We are here and now. And a project of mine is being seriously imperiled by your meddling."
"Sorry about that…" Carter started to quip, but Ziegler cut him off.
"I will find out how much you know about my personal business and for whom you are working."
"I have nine more fingers," Carter said, studying his bandaged hand. "Care to try for two out of ten?"
Ziegler smiled. It was the last expression Carter would have expected from the man, and it gave him a chill. "There are other methods, "he said. He looked up at his men still at the door. "Bring her in."
"Her?" Carter asked. He had a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.
The driver stepped out of the room. Ziegler got up and went over to the fireplace where he took a poker from the stand and wedged it among the glowing coals.
"Ziegler… you bastard," Carter said. The other man by the door had pulled out his gun. He was staring at Carter. The slightest move and it would be all over.
The driver returned a moment or two later, pushing Roberta Redgrave in front of him. She had obviously been roughed up.
Carter started to rise, but he was looking into the very large barrel of a.44 magnum. He slumped back.
"Spare us any emotional displays," Ziegler said without looking around. He picked up a wooden bellows and began fanning the coals around the poker, which he had jammed between two logs.
Roberta seemed dazed. Her hair was matted with sweat. Carter guessed she had been drugged. Her skin was clear and unbruised, and her clothing, while wrinkled, didn't seem torn or soiled, but she had a look about her that told him she had been psychologically abused.
"You may be interested to know that your friend is an operative with the BND," Ziegler said. "The Bundesnachrichtendienst." He kept pumping the bellows, the coals around the poker white hot now.
Carter's stomach flopped. Roberta an operative with the West German secret intelligence service. Was that why she had allowed him to approach her so easily? If it were true, she was good… very good indeed.
"Roberta?" he called out.
She didn't look up.
"She's in no condition to talk at the moment," Ziegler said, chuckling. "Although I'm sure we'll hear a
great deal from her in a moment or two." He took out the poker and examined it. The first six inches of the thing glowed a bright red. "Sit the bitch down," Ziegler said, turning around.
The guard by the door pulled a chair out from around the coffee table, and the driver shoved Roberta down into it.
"Wait a moment," Carter said. They all turned to him except for Roberta, who stared down at her knees. When he spoke again, he made his voice sound strained, as if he were very frightened and totally intimidated by Ziegler and his methods. It was his only hope, at least for the moment.
"I'll tell you whatever you want to know. Just don't hurt her."
"I was right about you, after all. You are a sentimentalist," Ziegler said. He jammed the poker back into the fireplace and sat down.
"I am a trained intelligence officer," Carter said. "You were right. You had me pegged… although I don't know how."
"Who do you work for?"
The government… the U.S. government, that is. But you have to believe me when I tell you that I'm here in no official capacity. I'm on leave."
"Interesting," Ziegler said. "Then why exactly is it you are here?"
"I've come to find out why Dr. Coatsworth was killed. She was a friend."
Ziegler took a cigarette from a silver case, then pushed the case back into his shirt pocket. "You certainly must think that I'm a fool," he said. He got up, went over to the fireplace, got the poker, and when he turned back he was smiling.
Carter could feel the sweat beginning to form on his chest.
Ziegler held out the poker, and the driver came across and took it from him. The other man trained his pistol on Carter.
"You don't have to do anything so crude," Carter said.
The driver brought the poker behind Roberta's chair. The son of a bitch was looking forward to it.
"I'm the only one who knows of the Odessa connection," Carter said. "I swear it. Hurting her won't change that."
