Black Cross

by Greg Iles

  He was surprised when Stern took a sheet of notepaper from an inside pocket and handed it to Stan Wojik. The Pole seemed surprised too. McConnell walked over to read it. Stern had hand-printed a message in English, followed by Polish and German translations:

  CODE: ATLANTA Freq: 3140 Request diversionary air raid very near but not on TARA on 15/2/44 at precisely 2000 hours. Raid absolutely essential to success. BUTLER and WILKES.

  “Is this smart?” McConnell asked. “What if he’s caught?”

  Stern shrugged. “If he’s caught, that note will be the least of our problems. Without that air raid—in the right place and at the right time—our plan won’t work. You said that yourself. It’s worth the risk of him carrying the note to get the message right.”

  Stan Wojik nodded.

  “Where do these men live?” McConnell asked, unable to curb his curiosity.

  Miklos laughed. “We are from a place called Warsow, on the Polish border.”

  “Warsaw?”

  “Warsow,” Stern corrected. “It’s a small village near the island of Usedom. That’s where the Peenemünde rocket complex was until the big bombing raid last August.”

  Stan Wojik understood enough of this to add, “Much experiments still go on. Rockets fly all across Poland. Airplanes without pilots. Very dangerous weapons.”

  “Is there still an SS garrison at Peenemünde?” Stern asked.

  “Some SS, yes.”

  “They forced you out of Warsow?” McConnell inquired.

  Stan shrugged. “Hard to fight the Germans in towns.”

  “You live in the forests now?”

  “We live wherever London needs us. Move all the time.”

  The meeting was over. Anna gave the Poles the rest of the food from McConnell’s bag. Miklos thanked her effusively, while Stan greedily eyed Stern’s Schmeisser. On impulse, McConnell reached into his bag and took out his own Schmeisser, which he held out to Stan and indicated through hand motions that he was willing to trade for the bolt-action Mauser and a box of cartridges. Stern started to object, but then apparently thought better of it.

  They made the trade.

  As they were leaving, Stan Wojik gestured at Stern with his new submachine gun and said, “Can you fool the Germans in that uniform?”

  In a transformation that stunned McConnell and Anna more than the Poles, Stern planted both feet wide apart on the ground, squared his shoulders, put his hands on his hips and barked several lightning commands at the Wojiks in harsh German.

  The big Pole took a step back and laid his hand on the meat cleaver. Then he looked at McConnell and laughed nervously. “I think maybe he does that too well! Careful he doesn’t get to liking it.”

  Stern relaxed and shook Stan Wojik’s hand again. “Your radio set has adequate range?”

  “Sweden is only a hundred and sixty kilometers across the water.” The Pole grinned and thumped his broad chest. “If we don’t get confirmation, I’ll steal a boat and sail across myself! You’ll get your bombs, my friend. Farewell.”

  “Dowidzenia,” said Stern.

  As they drove back along the Dettmannsdorf road, Stern said, “That’s the kind of brave son of a bitch who won’t survive this war. He’ll never win a medal, and he’ll die blindfolded and alone against some dirty brick wall.”

  “Shut up,” Anna said from the backseat. “Even if that’s true, there’s no point in talking about it.”

  McConnell had to agree.

  * * *

  They had no trouble getting back to Anna’s cottage. The trouble started after nightfall, when McConnell and Stern tried to slip up into the hills to retrieve the two gas cylinders they needed to booby-trap the SS bomb shelter. Three times they had to drop to their bellies in the snow to avoid SS patrols with dogs. The soldiers were working in pairs, mostly on foot, though one motorcycle with a sidecar had roared past on the narrow switchback road, spewing a rooster tail of snow behind it.

  Before leaving the cottage, Stern had told McConnell that their German uniforms would be enough to prevent anyone taking a close interest in them. So far, he had shown no inclination to test his theory.

  When they finally reached the pylon where the cylinders hung, McConnell caught his breath in astonishment. The two wooden support poles were as thick as oak trees, and joined at the top by a heavy crossarm. He could faintly see the outline of something hanging from one of the power lines, but in the confusion of the treetops he couldn’t be sure what. He did not see how they could climb to that crossarm in the dark, but Stern lost no time proving the boasts he had made at Achnacarry. He quickly donned his climbing spikes, then the gas mask McConnell had persuaded him to wear (though without the full body suit it was practically useless), tied a long coil of rope to his belt, and went up the pole like a chimpanzee. Forty seconds after he put metal to wood, he was straddling the crossarm sixty feet above the ground.

  McConnell heard a few metallic clinks above him, but nothing else. After about fifteen minutes, the first gas cylinder materialized out of the darkness above his head. The camouflaged tank descended silently, swinging in a gentle arc as Stern lowered it with the heavy rope. When McConnell tried to stop the swinging, to keep the protruding pressure triggers from striking the snow, the cylinder knocked him to the ground.

  Seeing this, Stern tied off the rope at the crossarm and descended. He had wisely disarmed the triggers before lowering the cylinder, and the two of them let the tank down without serious incident. By the time Stern climbed the pole and repeated the process, his muscles were cramping from overexertion.

  “You’ve got a big stain on your uniform,” McConnell told him when he reached the ground the second time.

  “Tar,” said Stern, pulling off his sweat-soaked gas mask. “The nurse will have to get it off. Are you ready?”

  “I don’t suppose we can drag these things?”

  “Not if you want to live until morning. The tracks would lead the SS right to us. What is it, Doctor? What are you thinking?”

  McConnell crouched beside one of the cylinders. “I was thinking . . . we might be able to test the gas before the raid, to see if it works or not. Then we’d know whether the attack was even worth trying.”

  “Can we do that?”

  McConnell lightly touched one of the pressure triggers, then examined the cylinder head. “I don’t think so. Not without losing the entire contents of a cylinder. We’d have to trip a trigger to get the cap off, and after the cap is blown, there’s no stopping the gas.”

  “What the hell?” said Stern. “Let’s try it. One cylinder should be enough to kill everybody in that bomb shelter.”

  “You’re missing the point. If we empty one of these things, and the gas works, it could kill every living creature for a hundred yards around. How long do you think it would take Schörner’s patrols to discover that? Also, the SS would hear the detonator go off. And even wearing a suit, I wouldn’t want to be anywhere close when it blew. It’s just too goddamn dangerous.”

  McConnell stood up. “No dress rehearsal. Let’s move.”

  “McShane said something about using carrying poles to move the cylinders,” Stern said. “We can tie our toggle ropes between two long branches and cradle the tank like a body on a litter.”

  “Sounds good. It’ll take two trips, but it’ll be worth it.”

  It took a few minutes to find dead branches strong enough to take the weight, but once they did, the rest went quickly. They moved with silent purpose through the trees, each knowing that poor concentration could mean death for them both. Their spirits rose when new snow began to fall, mercifully covering their tracks.

  They buried the two cylinders in a copse near the winding hill road. It would be a simple matter for Anna to stop Greta’s VW there tomorrow night, just long enough for Stern and McConnell to chain the tanks under the car.

  On the way back to the cottage, they kept off the road as much as possible. They were moving down the Dornow side of the hills when Stern smelled
the telltale odor that had given him early warning of danger so many times in his past: cigarette smoke. He reached out for McConnell’s arm, but felt nothing.

  He dropped onto his belly without a sound.

  A match flared in the darkness three meters ahead.

  In the first second Stern realized many things: that they had blundered unawares onto a road cut; that there were two SS men standing in the cut, holding machine pistols in one hand and cigarettes in the other; that their heads were at the level Stern’s knees had been before he dropped; that McConnell was too far away to warn without giving himself away. He could only hope the American had smelled the smoke in time.

  He hadn’t. By the time the match flared McConnell was already at the edge of the road cut. When he tensed, his weight broke the ledge of packed snow and he half-tumbled, half-slid down into the road and crashed onto his stomach.

  The SS men nearly pissed themselves with fright, but they managed to throw down their cigarettes and aim their machine pistols at the groaning figure on the ground. A German shepherd broke into furious barking.

  Seeing the dog, Stern simply ceased to exist in his own mind. He possessed no mass, made no motion. He knew the slightest sound or faintest odor might draw the animal’s attention.

  One of the SS men dragged McConnell to his feet and shined a flashlight into his face. The second man covered him with a machine pistol. The SS uniform and captain’s rank badge confused them. They didn’t recognize McConnell, but they weren’t yet confident enough to treat him like a criminal. The man with the flashlight began asking questions in rapid-fire German while the shepherd growled menacingly. McConnell said nothing, merely handed over his forged identity papers.

  The man with the flashlight examined them closely.

  * * *

  Four feet above them, Stern silently slipped his Schmeisser off his shoulder and crept forward like a mink over the snow. A fallen log stopped him. He felt the heat of battle in his blood, like a drug pounding through his heart and brain. But for the snow, he might have been in the desert again, scouting against Rommel’s troops. It took tremendous restraint to keep from dropping into the road and shooting both SS men with a wild shriek.

  He forced himself to think rationally.

  If he killed the soldiers, they would soon be missed. Major Schörner would probably launch a massive manhunt. Stern would have no choice but to go immediately back up the hill and release the cylinders. And then his father would die. That was unacceptable, but he had to do something. McConnell’s university German wouldn’t fool the SS men for twenty seconds. At least they had no radio, he thought gratefully. He considered stepping out of the woods, bold as brass, and playing the role of Standartenführer Ritter Stern for all it was worth. But even if he succeeded in fooling them, the very least they would do was report his presence to Major Schörner. More likely they would demand that he return to Totenhausen with them.

  When McConnell’s frightened eyes glanced up to his hiding place, Stern realized he had a third option. Brigadier Smith’s option. Under no circumstances can we allow the good doctor to fall into enemy hands. If it looks like he’s going to be captured alive, you’re going to have to eliminate him. That was an order. But Smith had given that order on the same night he told Stern his father had been killed in Totenhausen. The lying bastard. And yet . . . the order was logically sound. There was only one problem. If he killed McConnell, who would then help him save his father? The Poles, whispered a voice in his brain. Stan Wojik would like nothing better than to add an SS garrison to his scorecard. . . .

  With a silent curse Stern rose up above the log and sighted his Schmeisser down on McConnell’s chest. He would wait until the soldiers forced the American to start marching down the road back to Totenhausen. Then he would fire. Fire and run like hell.

  He pressed his finger to the trigger.

  * * *

  It took all of McConnell’s courage and concentration not to look up to where he knew Stern must be. All he could think of was Randazzo the Wop describing how David had been murdered by SS troops in a situation exactly like this one. Where the hell was Stern? Why hadn’t he marched out of the woods doing his SD impersonation? The man with the flashlight jabbered something in a guttural voice, then shoved McConnell backward. The only words he caught were “Who is . . . ?” “Doctor,” and “Peenemünde.”

  He opened his mouth to answer, but no words came out.

  The officer with the machine pistol stepped forward and jerked McConnell’s Walther from its holster.

  “Los, marsch!” the man shouted, pointing in the direction of Totenhausen.

  McConnell stole a last look in Stern’s direction, then turned and started up the road. He had walked about ten yards when the Brrat! of the silenced Schmeisser split the darkness.

  He felt a hammerlike blow between his shoulder blades. Then he was lying facedown in the snow, unable to move. He felt the German shepherd’s teeth tearing into the SS uniform, teeth raking his shoulder.

  Brrrat! went the Schmeisser again.

  He heard a thud, then footsteps crunching rapidly up the road. The dog’s jaws snapped shut on his neck.

  An explosive howl assaulted his eardrums.

  He flipped over onto his back in time to see Stern pin the German shepherd to the ground with his boot and fire a single shot into its mouth.

  “Get up!” Stern ordered. “Now! Up!”

  In spite of the shock of it all, McConnell quickly worked out what had happened. Stern had shot one of the SS men first. The startled shepherd had immediately pounced on McConnell, as it must have been trained to do. Stern then shot the second SS man, ran up and kicked the dog off his back and killed it.

  “Where the fuck were you?” McConnell asked.

  “Shut up!” snapped Stern. He was already dragging one of the dead SS men into the trees below the road. “Spread snow over those bloodstains!”

  McConnell obeyed. So, this is it, he thought, feeling his blood pounding in his ears. This is action. By the time he covered the stains, Stern had already piled both corpses and the dog out of sight in the trees.

  “What do we do now?” McConnell asked, dizzy with adrenaline. “Someone must have heard something! Where do we hide the bodies?”

  “Shut up and let me think,” said Stern. “We can’t bury them. Dogs would find them too easily. I’d like to throw them in the river, but we wouldn’t make it that far.”

  Stern snapped his fingers. “Sewers! Dornow must have a waste line running to the river.”

  “You mean carry the bodies into the village? The dog too?”

  “There’s probably an access hole near the edge of the village. Probably not too far from Anna’s cottage. I’ll scout it out.”

  “You don’t think bodies will be found in a sewer?”

  Stern bent over to lift one of the corpses. “If they start to stink, so what? Sewers stink anyway.”

  McConnell grabbed his shoulder. “Stern, you saved my life. I . . . thanks. Just thanks, that’s all.”

  Stern’s eyes flashed in the darkness. “Don’t thank me too quickly, Doctor. It was a near thing.”

  McConnell wanted to ask what he meant, but Stern had already hoisted one corpse onto his shoulder and moved off under the trees.

  35

  McConnell awoke from a dead sleep, his heart pounding. After their return from the Dornow sewer, Stern had told him to sleep fully dressed; now he knew why. Someone was pounding on a door above them. Stern had already scrambled to his feet and was checking the clip of his Schmeisser. The muted hammering reassured McConnell it was not the cellar door being assaulted, but that was small respite.

  Stern kicked him. “Someone’s trying to get into the cottage!”

  McConnell drew his Walther and followed Stern up the steps. Through a crack in the door they saw Anna sweep into the kitchen wearing only a nightgown. She glanced in their direction, hesitated, then went into the foyer to answer the knocking.

  “Who’s
there?” she called.

  “Fräulein Kaas? Open the door!”

  Stern moved into the kitchen and crouched behind the cabinets nearest the foyer. McConnell stayed on the cellar stairs, but aimed his Walther through the door.

  “Nurse Kaas! Open the door!”

  Anna braced her back against the door and closed her eyes. “It’s quite late!” she shouted. “Identify yourself!”

  McConnell glanced at his watch. Just after midnight.

  “I am Sturmmann Heinz Weber! You’re needed at the camp immediately! Major Schörner’s orders!”

  Anna glanced back into the kitchen, then turned and opened the front door. A tall lance corporal stood there, his breath steaming in the cold.

  “What is the problem, Sturmmann?”

  “I cannot say, Nurse.”

  “You have a car?”

  “Nein, a motorcycle with sidecar. Please, you must hurry.”

  “Wait here. I must put on some clothes.”

  “Hurry! The Sturmbannführer will have my head if we’re late.”

  “Late for what?”

  “Just hurry!” The soldier disappeared from the doorway.

  Anna hurried through the kitchen without any intention of stopping, but McConnell threw open the door and grabbed her arm. “Don’t go!” he said, surprising himself as well as her.

  She looked strangely at him. “I must go. I have no choice.”

  Stern pushed her toward her bedroom, then shoved McConnell back onto the cellar stairs and pulled the door shut after them. When they reached the bottom, he said, “What the hell was that about?”

  When McConnell didn’t answer, Stern poked him in the chest with the butt of his Schmeisser.

  Like a striking snake McConnell drove his open hand into Stern’s chest and slammed him up against the wall.

  “Don’t ever do that again,” he said.

  Stern was so stunned by this reaction that he merely watched the American climb back to the top of the stairs and sit down beside the door. “She’ll be all right,” he said. “She’s managed this long without your help.”