by Ib Melchior
If he could change his route; if he selected the correct seaport; if he could get there in time; and if he could spot Eva before she boarded her ship for Africa or for South America or wherever she was headed. If . . .
Dammit! The whole mission had become a forest of ifs.
For a moment he toyed with the idea of going for assistance to the local CIC in Bolzano. If there was a CIC office in the town. Another damned if! But what could they do? Trample around in the forest of ifs, and drive his quarry deeper underground than ever. Apparently the slightest sign of anything unusual sent the Achse operatives into a flurry of security measures. Look at what had happened at the Merano inn. All because he’d tapped some stupid bastard on the head.
No. There was nothing to be gained by involving the local CIC. Not now.
He was on his own. He’d have to stay that way.
With a problem that had just grown tenfold larger.
They had been driving for about half an hour when Woody felt the truck slow down. It made a sharp turn to the right, obviously on to a rutted dirt path off the main road. He was at once on the alert.
After a few minutes the truck came to a stop, and he heard Pietro get out of the cab. What was up? Rest stop? Hardly. Not after only half an hour.
He heard Pietro pull the latch on the back door to the truck. The door opened a crack and stopped, standing ajar.
Woody stepped up to the partly open door. He pushed it.
The truck was parked on a dirt path in a forest. A few feet behind it stood Pietro, a thin, unpleasant grin on his acne-scarred face—and an old Glisenti 1910, 9 mm pistol in his hand stretched out before him. It was aimed carefully at Woody.
“You will come down from the truck,” the Italian ordered. “You, Signore, and the Signorina.”
Woody at once grasped the situation. Somewhere along the line he’d been blown, and his elimination ordered. His—and Ilse’s. How? How had they penetrated his cover? What mistake had he made? Never mind. It was immaterial. Now. Everything was, except staying alive. Within the span of a few heartbeats a plan swept into his mind. Instantly he decided to act upon it. Adrenalin surged to support it.
“Stay back in the truck!” he whispered over his shoulder to Ilse. “As far as you can. Do not move until I tell you!” He heard the girl scramble to obey, then turned his full attention to the Italian. Fearfully he stared at him. The man held the pistol at arm’s length in one hand pointing it at him as if pointing with a finger. Good. He was not a professional. He could be rattled.
“Please,” he cried in his best Italian, his voice unsteady with apprehension, “please do not shoot!”
He surveyed the Italian. The man stood ten to twelve feet behind the truck. It might work. With a little luck. Anyway, whether it would or not, it was the only game in town.
“I will do as you say,” he croaked. “Please do not kill me!”
Pietro shrugged. He seemed to enjoy the feeling of being in complete command. “I have my orders, Signore,” he said. “I must follow them. As a soldier, you will understand.”
Woody jumped down from the back of the truck, clumsy in his apparent fear. He landed off balance and struggled to catch himself. He reached a half-crouched position—when he suddenly let out a bloodcurdling scream. In the same instant he made a quick feint to his right, immediately reversing himself and, still roaring in fury, has face fiercely distorted in raging frenzy, he catapulted himself at the Italian.
Pietro started violently, shocked at the sudden, unexpected scream. With instinctive reflex he fired in the direction of Woody’s feint, just missing him, as Woody made his countermove. At once he swung the pistol back but it was impossible for him to check the swing of the gun held in one hand and the second shot went wild. Before he was able to bring the pistol back and fire point-blank, Woody hit him in a hard, low tackle which knocked the wind out of him and sent his Glisenti pistol flying.
When he picked himself up, he found himself staring into Woody’s Walther.
“Don’t bother to get up, Pietro, my boy.” Woody grinned at him, his bantering tone of voice and choice of words somehow more menacing than cold threats. “Just stay right where you are. Make yourself comfortable. You’ll stay there for a while. Perhaps—forever.”
He planted himself solidly before the frightened Italian, sprawled awkwardly on the ground. “Now,” he said pleasantly, “you and I are going to have a little talk.” His voice suddenly grew hard. “Who told you to kill us?” he barked.
Pietro stared at him, his eyes dark with terror. He made no reply.
“Why?” Woody shot at him.
Pietro just stared. Woody sighed audibly. “Do you have a knife, Pietro?” he asked. “All good little Italians seem to have one. At least a penknife. Do you?”
Pietro sat as if petrified. He made no sound. But his pants darkened in front of him as he lost control of his bladder.
“Come now, Pietro, my boy,” Woody coaxed good-naturedly. “I can easily find out. Although, if I have to, it might be less pleasant for you. So, how about it?”
Without taking his eyes from Woody, the Italian dug into his soggy pocket and brought out a folding knife.
“Fine,” Woody approved. “Throw it over here.”
Pietro did. The wet knife landed at Woody’s feet. He worried it with the toe of his boot.
“Now, then, Pietro,” he said, “you and I have a decision to make. I have some questions. You know some answers to them, and I want those answers. Are you going to give them to me, Pietro?”
The Italian stared at him. He swallowed. But he said nothing.
“Very well.” Again Woody sighed with resignation. “The hard way, then.”
He nudged the knife with his boot. “I can stick the blade of this little knife under your fingernails, Pietro, and slit them open to the quick. I can split your nostrils—and I can even cut off your balls! But I am sure you will have told me what I want to know long before I get to that part of the ritual. What do you think?”
Carefully he bent down and picked up the knife.
“Or you can, of course, decide to talk before you lose a few fingernails. Or your balls.” His voice grew harsh. “Who ordered you to kill us?”
Pietro looked panic-stricken. He licked his dry lips with an equally dry tongue. His face glistened with the sweat of fear. “My—my cousin,” he whispered hoarsely. “Signor Bazzano.”
“That’s much better,” Woody said. He made a show of pocketing the knife. “Why?”
“There was an SS officer,” Pietro said. “From the Brüderschaft, he said he was. A Sturmbannführer. He told my cousin to do it.”
“When did he get to Merano?”
“The same night you did, Signore.”
Strelitz! His interrogator. Woody had an instant mental picture of him. The bastard was out to stop him. Prevent him from catching up with Eva. The man found out that he, Woody, against his explicit orders had pressured the Achse operator at the Wies to send him on his way at once. How much else had he found out? The guy was cute, he thought wryly. Real cute. Putting locks on all the back doors. Like giving him papers that would shunt him off to Rome—in case Pietro should strike out. As he just had. He felt a grudging respect for the man’s professionalism. “What exactly were your orders?” he demanded.
“I—I was to—to leave you here,” Pietro stammered. “Hidden in the bushes. No one would miss you. And when they found you, they would think perhaps—partisans . . . And then—then I was to pick up the supplies in Bolzano and return home. As I always do.”
Woody nodded. It made sense. But something was still nagging him. “Why this whole production?” he asked. “Bazzano could have gotten rid of us long ago. At the inn.”
Pietro shook his head. Now that he had begun to talk he seemed eager to give information.
“My cousin does not want trouble,” he said. “Not at the inn. That would not make him feel safe. He would not allow the German SS officer to do anything. At the inn. And
he wanted to be sure, and to send you off himself, and get you away from the inn, before . . . ” He let the sentence die.
“Why wait?” Woody asked. “Why did he not get rid of us yesterday, instead of having us sit in the damned basement?”
“He was away,” Pietro said. “We had to go to Sottomarina. By automobile. I was driving.”
“Sottomarina?”
“It is a fishing village. On the Adriatic coast. Near Venice.”
“What did you have to do there?”
“We took a couple of guests there. To my cousin, Mario.”
Woody tensed. He felt the familiar surge of excitement that came with the first hint of a real clue in a case.
“Describe the couple,” he snapped. He hoped he had not betrayed his eagerness.
“A man and a woman, Signore,” Pietro answered. “Germans.”
“Describe the woman.”
“She was—pretty. Blond. Maybe she had thirty years. Maybe more. One finds it difficult to tell with a woman.”
“Do you know who she was?”
Pietro shook his head. “I only heard the man talk to her. Once. He was solicitous. He called her Eva. But this I know . . . ” He showed the gap where his missing teeth used to be. “She was big.” He held his hands in front of his stomach. “With child.”
Woody stared at him. With his last two words the man had given him the key. The key to the whole damned case. It instantly opened a floodgate, and understanding cascaded in on him. It was the key to why Eva had to be saved and spirited out of Germany. The key to why her travel along the escape route had been so vigilantly guarded. The key to the whole elaborate Berlin charade!
Eva Braun Hitler was carrying the Führer’s heir!
He was stunned at his realization. “Why did you take them to Sottomarina?” he snapped.
“We took them there because Mario has a boat. A fishing boat.”
“Were they going on the boat?”
“Yes.”
“Where was he taking them?”
“To Bari.”
“Where in Bari?”
Pietro shrugged. “Some cantiere-riparazioni battelli—some boat works.”
Woody fixed the Italian with a burning stare. “Think, Pietro,” he said. “Think hard. Did they mention the name of this boat works?”
Pietro frowned. He shook his head. “I do not remember,” he said. His eyes flitted away from Woody.
“Listen, Pietro, and listen good,” Woody said, his voice ominously low. “I’ll give you a choice. You remember the name of that damned boat works and you’ll live. If you don’t you will be the one they’ll find hidden in the bushes. Dead!”
Pietro stared at him. “If I—if I remember,” he whispered, “you will not hurt me?”
“Remember, dammit!” Woody snarled.
Pietro flinched. “It was—it is called Cantiere-riparazioni Battelli di Benjamino Montesano,” he breathed.
Woody let out his breath. How long had he held it? There it was.
The final stop. The point of embarkation from Bari.
And Eva was already on her way there.
At once a plan began to take shape in his head. “Listen carefully, Pietro,” he said. “I promised you I’d let you live—and I will. More than that. I’ll save your ass for you with Bazzano for having botched the job.”
Pietro looked up, eagerly.
“You do exactly as I tell you,” Woody continued, “and you will come out of this smelling like a rose.”
“Grazie, Signore,” Pietro exclaimed effusively. “I will do what you say. Exactly what you say. Lo prometterò, Signore!”
“First,” Woody said, “how were you to prove to old Bazzano that you had in fact done away with me? I’m sure the bastard wouldn’t be satisfied with just your word.”
Pietro nodded vigorously. “That is true, Signore. I was to bring back your papers to him.”
Woody nodded. “I will give them to you,” he said. “And you will give me whatever identification you have.” Pietro looked startled. “You can always say you lost them and have them replaced,” Woody finished. “That’s your problem.”
Pietro nodded.
“Here’s what you’ll do,” Woody went on. “You will take us to Bolzano in the truck and let us out where I say. You will finish your business in town and drive back to the inn. You will tell Bazzano that you did your job and got rid of us, and you will give him my papers as proof. Do you understand?”
Pietro nodded eagerly.
“If you do not do what I am telling you to do, the Brüderschaft will find out, and I don’t have to tell you what the consequences will be for you. On the other hand, do what I say, and you’ll be a damned hero.”
Without taking his eyes off the Italian he called, “Ilse! Come on out now.”
Ilse appeared at the back of the truck. She climbed down and joined Woody. She looked at Pietro as if seeing him for the first time.
“There’s a gun lying somewhere over there,” Woody said, nodding toward some bushes. “Would you find it and bring it to me?”
Ilse walked over to the spot indicated. Almost at once she bent down and picked up Pietro’s Glisenti pistol. She brought it to Woody. Pietro was watching, apprehension once again growing in his eyes.
Woody checked the gun. Six rounds left, including one in the chamber. He switched it to his right hand. He contemplated the Italian, who sat watching him wide-eyed.
Suddenly he fired. He emptied the clip.
Pietro threw himself flat on the ground, clamping his hands over his head.
“What’s the matter, Pietro?” Woody grinned. “Afraid of loud noises?” He threw the empty pistol to him. “You might as well show cousin Luigi that you did a thorough job.” With his own Walther he gestured. “Pick it up. And let’s get going. We will ride with you in the cab this time.”
He followed the Italian to the truck, Ilse beside him. He was encouraged. Perhaps he did have a chance of pulling everything off okay after all. He was certain Pietro would jump at the chance of saving his own skin and do as he had been instructed. That meant Bazzano, and Strelitz for that matter, would be off his back. He’d learned where the Bari Anlaufstelle was and that Eva was on her way there, and not to some other port of embarkation. And he had found out exactly how to identify her. After all, how many pregnant women could there be who traveled the Achse escape route?
His remaining problem was how to get to Bari before Eva left.
He had an idea. It was risky. But, hell, the time for taking real risks had come.
27
PIETRO CONSIDERED HIMSELF LUCKY. Molto fortunato. He would do exactly as the German had instructed him. He was very clever, that German. No one would know the truth. And what did it matter that another couple of Nazis escaped from the Allies in Germania, eh? Niente! He would describe to Luigi how he had shot them. Both of them. Killed them. How they had pleaded for their lives, and how he, Pietro, had been determined and unyielding, deaf to their begging. He would show where he had shot them, each of them many times to be certain, and he would show his empty pistol. He would show how they had died. He looked forward to it. Luigi would believe him, and there would be no trouble for him. He even had the German’s papers to prove he was telling the truth. Benissimo!
He gave a quick, sidelong glance at the man sitting next to him. He had said not a word since they left the forest, and they would be in Bolzano in a few minutes. He shrugged. Non importa. The man would tell him where and when he wanted to be let off.
Woody nearly had his plan of action formulated. Everything had changed so suddenly, and he was forced to play it by ear. However, he did want to have an overall game plan. He thought he did.
He peered through the dirty windshield. Ahead, on the horizon, he could see the town of Bolzano, the center of the German-speaking population of the Italian Tyrol, situated on the Isarco River. He knew little about the town. Only that it had been of some strategic importance during the war as the hub of the Bren
ner Pass railroad and highway as they dipped down from the Alps. That, and the steelworks located in the town, had been enough to invite severe Allied air strikes, and the city of 75,000 souls had been extensively damaged.
In his mind he went over his immediate problems once more. How to get to Bari. He had that one licked . . . How to pass as Italian, which he had to be able to do if he used Pietro’s I.D. cards. He was grateful for the Italian he’d learned at school in Switzerland. It was adequate for him to get along, but it was not good enough for him to pass as a native, even a native of another province. He thought he’d figured out how to get around that difficulty, too. He’d have to remember to look in the truck’s toolkit before he sent Pietro on his way . . . And there was Ilse. He had no choice but to rely on her. He hoped he could. He thought so. Perhaps it was only wishful thinking. He would give her his instructions once they got rid of the Italian . . . The CIC. He’d wrestled with that one. At first he’d thought that now was the time to enlist the aid of the locals. It had been a tempting thought. He could easily have passed the buck. But the more he’d examined the consequences he knew would result if he did, the more he’d realized it would not work. By the time he would be able to establish who and what he was; by the time he could convince a local CIC officer of high enough rank to take action; by the time his story could be verified and he’d get permission to operate in Italy, and the necessary cooperation; by the time a mission to Bari could be mounted that’d have even half a chance of succeeding, Eva would be halfway to Argentina.
Dammit! He was still on his own.
They had reached the outskirts of town. The ravages of war were evident everywhere: in the empty ruins that lined the streets, and on the equally empty faces of the people who walked them.
They passed what had apparently been a little park, now an open, crater-dotted expanse of rubble with a tangle of scorched, uprooted trees.
“Stop here,” he ordered.
Pietro brought the truck to a sputtering halt.
“Do you have a toolbox in the truck?” Woody asked him.
