In less than a minute, he could see it was his Opel swerving and weaving along the track, and he immediately knew who would be driving it.
It skidded to a halt, almost colliding with a service truck. Krüger ran across to it, ripped open the driver’s door. Sure enough, there was Tygo behind the wheel—shaking uncontrollably. He was soaked through.
Krüger pulled him by his soaking shirt from behind the wheel. “The stone, do you have the stone?” he yelled at him.
Tygo nodded. “Y-y-yes.”
Krüger’s heart jumped at the news. He let go of the boy. The stone was safe.
“What the hell has happened, Frettchen?” he demanded.
“C-c-cold,” Tygo managed. His teeth were chattering badly now.
“Get me a blanket, dry clothes!” Krüger shouted; he didn’t want him dead quite yet. By the car’s interior light he could see that the young man’s lips were blue; he was halfway there already. Krüger pulled out his hip flask and handed it to Tygo, who took a swig, then coughed. His teeth stopped chattering.
“Ambush on the convoy,” Tygo managed to say.
A soldier ran up with a thick army blanket, a set of gray coveralls, and a field jacket. Krüger threw the blanket around Tygo’s shoulders.
“What do you know about a convoy?”
“Know everything.” His teeth continued to chatter. “H-H-Hitler in the c-c-convoy. The bridge has gone; they can’t get across.”
Krüger stood there and swore.
Tygo could see he was trying to figure out what to do; even in his befuddled state, he could understand that this changed everything for Krüger.
He watched the man pace in front of him. Finally he appeared to reach some sort of decision, and Tygo had another thought: Maybe this didn’t change anything. Not for Krüger. He had the plane, and soon he’d have the stone too.
Yes, that was it: Krüger was almost smiling. “Give me the stone,” he said, holding out his hand.
“Wait.” Tygo’s mind was also racing now, thinking out his options, going over the horse-trading that the stone now afforded him—well, him and Willa. The stone could be for them what it was going to have been for Krüger: their golden ticket, their passport to freedom.
“You can have it … on one condition.”
“And what is that?”
“You take me and Willa with you on the plane.”
“And what makes you think I’m going on that plane?” Krüger couldn’t believe the boy’s—what was the Jewish word?—chutzpah.
Tygo looked at him as he stripped off his wet clothes. He noticed that his skin was tinged with blue. “You think you know me—your Frettchen. But I know you too, Oberst.”
Tygo suddenly felt unafraid of Krüger; it was funny standing there freezing to death but he had never felt more powerful, his courage bubbling up inside him.
“The mission is finished, but you still have a chance. Do you really want to stay in Amsterdam when the British and Americans arrive? You can escape tonight—you can even keep the stone now, the stone that woman wants, someone who can give whatever it is that you want in return. You’ll never get a better chance.”
Krüger stared back at Tygo. “You’re a lot smarter than you look, Frettchen … very well, it’s a deal. Now let me have it.”
Tygo dug into his trouser pocket. He pulled out the Red Queen and held it up. Even with just the weak light from the car’s blinkered headlamp, the stone flared with fire.
Krüger smiled broadly and stepped toward Tygo. Tygo backed away.
“No!” he said and closed his fist. “One more step and it’s gone forever.”
Krüger put up his hands. “What’s wrong? Surely you trust me.”
“Don’t treat me like a fool.”
“You’re right. The time for games is over.” Krüger had his gun out of his holster in an instant, but before he could shoot, Tygo dropped the diamond into his mouth and swallowed.
“Your move,” he said.
For a moment Krüger contemplated shooting the boy dead and retrieving the stone the bloody way with his SS ceremonial dagger. But no. Truth be told, a part of him almost admired Tygo’s spirit. Perhaps he would even find a use for him if they made it out of there tonight.
A soldier sprinted across to them. “Oberst Krüger! I have General Müller on the shortwave. He needs to talk to you immediately!”
Krüger swore, then turned and ran back with the operator toward the radio truck, leaving Tygo pulling on the coveralls and flak jacket. There was nowhere for him to go from here—and Krüger still had the girl.
Krüger pulled himself up the metal ladder and into the back of the truck. The two operators were waiting for him; they were quite young, and they looked scared.
“General Müller,” one of them said, and handed a pair of headphones and microphone to Krüger.
Krüger grabbed them. “General Müller, this is Krüger. What is your situation?” It was too late for call signs.
Müller’s voice came on the line. “The Führer is safe; we are withdrawing under fire. Reinforcements are on their way. Over.”
“Understood, Herr General. What are your orders?”
“Hold flight time, repeat, hold flight time. We will be with you by zero six hours.”
Krüger stood there, his mind racing. Six a.m.—that would mean flying across Europe in daylight, a near-suicidal proposition. Müller and Bormann must be desperate, he thought.
“Sorry, Herr General, say again?” Krüger waited.
“Zero six hours!” Müller’s voice was louder in his earphones.
Krüger had the plane ready to go, protected by the night. Most important, he had the stone—or rather, he had Tygo, who had the stone. He could get to Argentina—give it to Eva Duarte himself …
“I understand, Herr General. We will carry out the mission as planned.”
“What are you talking about?” Müller was yelling.
“I’m losing you, Herr General, transmission is breaking up.”
“Oberst Krüger, I am ordering you …”
Krüger pulled off the headphones and tossed them back to the radio operator.
“I lost him.”
One of the operators glanced at the other one skeptically. “Are you sure, sir? I can try to reconnect you.”
“No need, Corporal, I have my orders: The mission is to go ahead as scheduled. In fact, I think it would be a good idea”—Krüger slid his pistol from his holster—“if we observed radio silence from now on.” He raised the pistol and fired. Eight shots. The operators would not be sending or receiving any time soon.
Krüger climbed out of the truck and closed the door firmly behind him. “Lieutenant!” he yelled, seeing the young commander of the Luftwaffe regiment. Krüger dropped out the clip on his Sauer 38H and slapped in a fresh magazine.
The lieutenant ran across. He looked worried, and his cap was gone.
“Lieutenant, I have just received orders from General Müller that we are to take off immediately. Once we are airborne, abandon the base and set demolition charges.”
The lieutenant saluted and Krüger hurried past him. Sporadic gunfire could still be heard through the trees. Tygo was nowhere to be seen, but Krüger was not worried; he knew he was blundering about searching for Willa.
He ran up the ramp into the plane, making his way past the rocket and wooden crate, securely lashed down in the middle of the cargo bay, and past the private compartment specially fitted for the Führer until he reached the cockpit.
“Gentlemen,” Krüger shouted, “there has been a complication, but the Führer has personally ordered us to take off immediately; the safe delivery of the T-Waffe to the U-boat is paramount. Are you able to do so?”
The copilot nodded. “Of course—we have both flown this bird before. We will start the engines.”
“Excellent!” Krüger smiled. “Five minutes, we go in five minutes.”
“You will act as the loadmaster?” the copilot shouted back to Krüg
er.
“Ja, I will do it,” he replied, then turned and ran back down the plane. Stopping by the top of the ramp, he checked over the metal control panel that controlled the ramp and door hydraulics.
Tygo was searching the tents in the darkness, calling Willa’s name loudly.
The lieutenant ran toward him. “Who are you?”
“Tygo Winter; I work for the Oberst.”
“Have you seen him?” The lieutenant seemed panicked. “The radio operators have been shot!”
“No.” Tygo ran on, dodging others in the dark. “Willa! Willa!”
He heard the engines start to turn over just as he reached the next tent. The flap flew back and Willa ran out and straight to him. They hugged tightly.
“I knew you’d come back,” she said, kissing his cheek.
“We’re getting on that plane to Barcelona. It’s all going to work out, like I said.”
“Tygo, nothing’s worked out like you said.”
“We’re still here, aren’t we?” Tygo’s excitement was infectious. He took her hand. The plane’s engines were building.
“Wait,” said Willa. “There’s something I don’t understand. You brought the stone back, yes?”
Tygo nodded.
“Then why didn’t he just take it and kill you?”
“Oh, he’d have liked to do that, but then how could I have saved you?”
Willa jabbed him in the ribs.
“Let’s just say I thought of a very good reason why he had to take me, take us … we’re going to escape this place, Willa. I think you’ll like Barcelona. It’s a nice city.”
“Tygo, you’re …” Willa was lost for words.
“Tell me later.”
They ran together through the gloom toward the Arado. The camp was in chaos, soldiers collapsing tents and loading equipment. They were nearly at the ramp when Willa fell heavily.
She cried out, and when Tygo went to help her, he could see she had tripped over a body lying on the frozen ground. Tygo crouched down; it was the lieutenant, executed with a bullet to the head.
“Is he dead?” asked Willa, getting up onto her knees.
“Yes,” said Tygo. The man’s eyes were staring up at him unblinkingly, still with a look of surprise.
Krüger was taking no chances anymore.
Willa stood up. The plane’s engines were blowing a backdraft through the trees toward them, sending pine needles and snow into their faces. “Come on, Tygo!” she shouted above the roar.
“Just a second.” Tygo felt his way down the man’s torso until he found his leather holster. He unclipped it and slid out the pistol. It was a Mauser HSc, a standard Luftwaffe sidearm. He stuffed it into the pocket of his field tunic. “Coming.”
He grabbed Willa’s hand, and they made it the short distance to the plane and scrambled up the ramp. There was no one inside. They stood there, catching their breath; the whole plane was now vibrating from the spinning propellers straining to be set free.
Willa glanced at the sleek, gray rocket strapped inside and the heavy wooden crate beside it. “Do you really think it’s true what Krüger said, that this bomb can destroy all of New York City?”
Tygo looked at her. “He said that?”
Willa nodded. Tygo looked at the rocket, then at the wooden crate. “Well … I mean, look at what they’ve done to get this bomb and the Führer to safety … they must believe it will end the war.” He was pulling Willa farther inside, toward the missile.
“But New York—that means it could kill millions.”
“Do you really think that’s true?”
Willa nodded. Tygo looked at the wooden crate again. The numbers on the side matched the numbers he had seen when he had stolen into Krüger’s office and examined the secret file: Ur 234 Spezielle Formul.
“We can’t let that happen, Tygo, we just can’t.”
“What are you saying, Willa … ?”
“Get inside!” It was Krüger, sprinting up the ramp, finishing Tygo’s sentence for him. Despite the cold he was sweating heavily. Tygo noticed his holster was open, and he was carrying the leather valise from his office, no doubt containing the diamonds and all his other loot—share certificates, Swiss francs, gold sovereigns.
“Get to your seats. This plane is taking off!” Krüger pressed the control panel, and the ramp started to retract back up.
Tygo and Willa hurried through the cargo bay. Willa stopped when they reached the rocket. She ran her hand along the side of it, right up to the nose cone with its yard-long air speed tube attached to it like a rapier.
“It’s evil,” she said, and Tygo pulled her forward away from it.
They found a pair of seats bolted to the floor behind the private compartment. They slid in side by side, breathing hard. Tygo could see the plane’s wing above them through the window, and one of the engine’s exhaust spurting flecks of flame as they revved up.
He glanced back; the ramp was up, and the outer doors were closing over it. Krüger had the plane’s intercom headphones on and was talking into the loadmaster’s microphone box next to the hydraulics.
Tygo felt the brakes being released with a jolt, and the Arado moved forward. He leaned out and saw the pilots inside the cockpit; both had their hands over the four throttle levers between their two seats. The plane slowly started to gather speed, bumping over the metal panels that made up the airstrip.
Krüger hurried past them. “Go, go!” He yelled the order into the cockpit, opened the door to the private compartment just behind it, and disappeared inside.
Tygo looked out through the window. The plane’s under-wing lights had come on, and he noticed for the first time a large metal cylinder tapering to one end, about the size of a beer barrel. It was attached to a metal pod between the nacelles of the engines. As he stared at it, he realized something.
Willa was right: They couldn’t let the Nazis use that weapon. They had the power to stop them … but that power was right now. Not in six hours’ time when they landed in Barcelona; by then it would be too late. He had to forget this idealized picture he had of Willa and himself sitting on a beach in Spain, waiting for the war to end. It really was now or never.
Pieter and his sister had stopped the Führer from escaping; Tygo and Willa would stop him from winning the war. It was as simple as that. He had to stop the plane from taking off; if he could do that, he and Willa still had a chance of getting away through the woods. There was only Krüger who would care.
He undid his seat belt.
“What are you doing?” Willa asked.
“You said it yourself, Willa, we can’t let the Nazis use that weapon. We’ve got to stop them!”
“But how …”
“I’ve got the pistol, remember? It’s risky, but …”
Suddenly there was an explosion from outside the window. A sheet of flame had shot out of the end of the cylinder, and it was as if a giant had picked up the plane like a paper dart and hurled it forward. They would be airborne in seconds, Tygo realized.
“Yes or no, Willa?”
“Okay, yes, yes!”
Tygo jumped out of his seat and ran forward toward the cockpit. The floor was rising as he ran, and he felt the nose wheel of the aircraft suddenly lift off the ground. He struggled forward. The auxiliary rocket boosters under the plane’s wings were blasting it into the air; he wasn’t going to make it. He felt the back wheels come off the ground. Just a few more steps. The plane was climbing now, banking sharply.
He grabbed ahold of the bulkhead at the entrance to the cockpit, drawing his pistol. Alisa was right, it was terrible thing he was about to do, but he had no choice. He fired.
The pilot was leaning forward out of his seat, keeping the pressure up on the engine throttles. Tygo’s first three shots hit him in the back, throwing him forward onto his control wheel. The navigator, now acting as the copilot, turned around in his seat, and Tygo fired again. The bullet caught the man high up, shattering his collarbone, and spun him bac
k.
The plane suddenly pitched forward and started to dive. Tygo hung on to the side of the bulkhead. Behind him, the door to the private compartment slammed open and Krüger braced himself in the door frame.
“Frettchen!” he screamed. “What have you done?” He fumbled for his pistol as the plane dipped lower, the auxiliary rockets under the wings now spent of fuel.
The navigator was back up, pulling on the wheel weakly with one hand, the other pushing the engine’s throttles back toward idle. The nose lifted and they seemed to be flying horizontally now. The plane’s landing lights were still on, and Tygo stared ahead wide-eyed through the conical Perspex dome of the cockpit. He saw the dunes flash by just below them, then a strip of white sand, concrete and metal blocks and spikes sprouting from it, a ribbon of gray surf.
Then the plane drove into the black water beyond, and the Perspex windows imploded. A wall of water hit Tygo in an instant and hurled him into oblivion.
For a moment Tygo wondered if he was dead, then the icy water lapping around him dragged him fully conscious. He must have been out for only a couple of minutes. He tried to get his bearings; he was tangled up in the metal seats on the other side of the fuselage from Willa and the private compartment. The red running lights along the side of the fuselage were still working, giving the inside a hellish red glow.
There was something sticky on his face, and when he put his hand to it, it came away crimson. He was bleeding, but he didn’t feel any pain. He looked around, trying to clear the fuzziness from inside his head.
The plane appeared to have crashed into shallow water just beyond the surf line of the beach. It had gone nose in, and the cockpit had been shattered as it hit the bottom of the seabed, water pouring in. The initial onrush was what had thrown Tygo back, but now the plane had settled and was lying at a twenty-degree angle into the water. The cockpit remained completely flooded. Tygo glanced out the windows; the rockets had burned out, but some of the engines were still running. Flames were starting to lick around one of them, and there was a strong smell of burning rubber and fuel.
Tygo slowly disentangled himself. Quite apart from the missile, which appeared to still be secured to the floor of the plane, they were inside what was potentially a massive bomb once the fuel tanks caught.
Winter's Bullet Page 14
