The papers weren’t a forgery, though they were sixty years old. With a single flick of her hand, the pages crackled and unfolded so he could see the signature at the bottom.
Hermann Goering.
The color visibly drained from his ruddy cheeks.
“You have inserted yourself here without orders and put at risk a most secret and important operation. Explain yourself.”
His mouth moved a couple of times, but nothing came out.
Mel took another step toward him, until she was close enough to smell his sour body order. She didn’t wrinkle her nose in distaste, but it wasn’t easy. At least she knew she still had a sense of smell. She’d been starting to wonder.
He cleared his throat. “We had no information—“
“Do you seriously expect Berlin to notify you when they launch a top secret mission? Perhaps,” She took another step toward him, so that they were almost nose to nose now, “you don’t quite understand the concept of secret?” She waited for two heartbeats and added, “I do think my dear, Hermann, would have mentioned you…if you had the necessary clearance to even talk to me.”
Temper flared in his eyes and she wondered if she’d pushed too hard. She could see him balance on the knife-edge of control. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the whites of his men’s eyes. He’d get no support from them. They just wanted to leave.
“Did you want me to tell Hermann something? The Herr and I are scheduled to speak with each other later tonight. He insists on hearing my voice every night. Of course, he trusts me completely, else why would he have given me unlimited authority.” Mel paused. “Unlimited.”
That pushed him toward control, but barely. His meaty fists were still clenched. He stepped back, one step, then two.
“My apologies.” His mouth worked a couple of times before he was able to add, “What are your orders?”
Now Mel stepped back, grateful for some fresh air. She clasped her hands behind her back and looked around, her gaze stopping on the two men still gripping the housekeeper’s arms. Her brows arched and they stepped hastily away from her.
Madame rubbed her bruised wrists, casting Mel a suspicious look. The priest stepped forward and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. Mel gave him a quick, hopefully reassuring gaze, before turning back to Kass.
She sighed. “I’m sure you are a good enough soldier, in your overenthusiastic and doltish way. I have no wish to eliminate you. Bodies are so messy and difficult to dispose of.” Another pointed pause. “Though maybe not so difficult this near a cemetery.”
Kass swallowed with difficulty, the sound harsh in the weighted silence. He seemed to shrink in size.
“If I might suggest,” the priest entered the discussion in stilted German. Mel wondered how much of the conversation he’d followed or guessed. “I doubt they have been seen here. If they were to withdraw and never speak of it…”
The four men looked her hopefully as she appeared to consider the suggestion.
“Very well.” She stepped close to Kass again. “But if I learn you have broken your word, you will wish you were on the Russian front.”
He stepped back and saluted sharply, giving her the standard, “Heil Hitler.”
Mel echoed the move, though abbreviated it as much as she dared. There was a bad taste in her mouth and not just from lack of proper brushing. The four men shuffled out, one of them even pausing to close the door behind them. No one spoke in the room until the sound of their vehicle faded into the distance. Mel was afraid to even sigh. She stood rigidly in place, praying Kass was too stupid to start thinking again. Her story had more holes than the kid’s book with the same name.
“See if they are gone,” the priest asked his housekeeper, “then see to your injuries.”
She cast a suspicious, resentful glance at Mel but did as she was asked.
“Who are you?” he asked, his voice still gentle, but with a thread of iron running through it.
What, she wondered, would he have done if she’d really been Hermann Goering’s mistress? Tough choice for a priest. And she hoped she wasn’t about to find out. All he really had to do was tell Mouy. That sent a chill down her back and reduced SEAL attitude to almost zero. She turned to fully face him.
“I am who I was before those thugs came, mon pere.” She was shaking inside, and it was starting to spread out. She stepped forward and dropped onto one of the table’s wooden chairs. She looked up at him, hoping he could see in her eyes she was telling him the truth. “I’m not an agent of the Gestapo.”
“And yet you carry identity papers convincing enough to scare Kass, who does not scare so easy.”
His words were combative, but he did sit down across from her. Mel handed him the papers.
“They are very convincing.” He looked troubled.
“I hope so. They had to be. And I might remind you, they just saved all our lives.” Mel leaned toward the old man. “And I am not that person. Nor can I explain how I came to have them.”
He fingered the pages, with a slight frown. “They look very old, mademoiselle.”
She couldn’t lie to him. He’d know it now.
“If I could tell you, I would. But I promise you, you don’t want to know. I don’t want to know.” The tension in the room was easing. She could feel it. “I just want to go home.” Her shoulders sagged and it embarrassed her how forlorn her voice sounded. She forced her shoulders back and lifted her chin. If she convinced him, it wouldn’t be by being a girl.
There was a long silence, as she was weighed and judged.
“You are fortunate that I am a priest. Against my reason…I believe you. But I wouldn’t mention these to anyone else.”
“Yeah, I was actually thinking the same thing myself.” She gave him a shaky smile. “I will never forget your kindness and your trust. I won’t let you down. I promise.”
He patted her hands now. “It is only God that you must please. Only He can get you home, my child.”
Mel sobered. “Well, I hope He has mercy on us both.”
They were going to need it.
* * * * *
Kass directed his men to return to the base, trying to disguise his anger and humiliation from them. He was not, he well knew, popular with the men. He didn’t care. It was not his job to be liked or theirs to like him. But these three, he had made them come out and they would rejoice in this set back.
But would they dare speak of it? As angry as he was, he didn’t dare go back. Somehow, he must turn defeat into victory. If only he could capture the three fliers, it would not matter so much. He hated returning like a spanked little boy. But if he interfered in a Gestapo operation—no, he was not that angry. Nor was he a fool. What he wanted to do was get every man in the barracks out of bed and make them beat the bushes until they fell over or turned up the fliers. And if they didn’t find them in the bushes, then tear each and every house in the district apart, piece by piece.
Tonight would be perfect, with the Oberst out to dinner. Out to dinner, while enemies of the Third Reich ran free. He was beginning to wonder where the Oberst’s real loyalties lay…and how he could use the Oberst’s weakness to his own advantage…
* * * * *
Thorhaus leaned forward as his car halted at the entrance to the compound and presented his papers to the guard. It was clear they were expected. The guard glanced at them and handed them back, then waved at them, directing them to go to the right after passing through the raising barrier.
He was glad he’d accepted the invitation to dinner from his old friend. Like himself, Dieter Trump was a colonel of the old school. Thorhaus, nevertheless, reminded himself to be careful. In these dangerous times, confiding, even in friends, was a luxury he could not afford.
It was also a relief to be away from Kass. Usually they took the evening meal together, but even he couldn’t force himself into this situation. Before he left, Kass had informed Thorhaus he’d be following up a lead on the missing fliers. Thorhaus was too w
eary to object and merely nodded. They’d all have to look out for themselves for the evening.
He had a feeling his friend the priest knew more than he should about the missing fliers and the underground. He hoped he’d be careful. Thorhaus could barely protect himself. If the priest were found aiding the enemy, only his God could save him.
He thought about his last visit with the old man. Was it just the kitchen meeting that had been odd? Or something else? Almost idly he replayed the scene. The kitchen had been a pleasant place. Reminded him of his mother’s kitchen when he was growing up. The spices hanging from the rafters. The fire. The boots by the door—
Boots by the door. Something about the boots…one pair had been muddy. It might be that the housekeeper hadn’t gotten around to cleaning them, but they had been smaller than the other pairs. And different…he wished he’d looked more closely at them. And he wasn’t sure what their presence meant, though he could see the stern housekeeper making even a fleeing flier remove his muddy shoes. She made him feel like he was back in school again.
As his car slid to a slow stop in front of what he presumed to be Dieter’s living quarters, he had an impression of a building both temporary and slapped together. What was his old friend guarding here?
His driver clambered out and opened the door. Thorhaus felt the cold air bite through his clothes as he left the protection of the car. There was the scent of wood smoke, German sausage and the dangerous one of real Kaffeebohnen, made from real coffee beans, instead of the Ersatzkaffee that smelled of nothing at all.
How did Dieter dare flaunt what had to be a black market purchase? His taste buds watered as he climbed the short steps and he inhaled It had been a long time since he smelled real coffee, let alone drank any.
“Eugen,” Dieter’s voice came from the shadow of the small landing. His hand was gripped strongly and he was steered between the blackout layers into the lighted room beyond. “I’m delighted you could come!”
Now the elusive scent of cooking apples teased his taste buds, too. This was danger indeed.
“It’s good to see you, Dieter.” Thorhaus gripped his friend’s hand, looking into his eyes, hoping to find them the same, hoping his friend hadn’t changed. But his eyes showed only facile pleasure at the sight of an old friend. He sighed. Perhaps his gaze was also guarded. A pity there wasn’t some secret mark they could wear, only recognized by those who didn’t love Hitler and were only doing their duty.
* * * * *
There was a thin, cold silver of moon hanging in the deep blue-black sky. Stark branches threw ominous shadows at their feet as they milled around the German truck, preparing to move out. A gentle breeze lowered the temperature a few more degrees. There was a hint of wood smoke in the wind and a touch of petrol and a bit of truck smell, but not much else. Winter air had a different scent from other seasons. It was devoid of richness, almost sterile. Even their human scents were whisked somewhere else, it seemed. Or maybe it was just that Mel’s nostrils were so cold, it reduced her smelling capacity. It was cold enough that her nostrils felt crackly and each inhale made her lungs ache.
In any event, it felt colder than last night or even their first night in France, though the cold factor could be bumped up by fear. It was hard to say, without any way to measure the level of cold or fear. It was, as she’d previously noted in memos to herself, ironic that her adventure in time had been so short on sensory detail, particularly since she’d landed in a country that should have been rich in it.
Mel stamped her booted feet and thumped the sides of her arms, trying to keep the feeling in them. When the time came, she needed to be able to move and move fast. Hopefully that moving would be away from danger, not toward it.
There was another reason for her enhanced chill factor. Her Gestapo ID had gone from a security blanket to a hot potato in her money belt, though she knew the analogy didn’t really work, even inside her head. If it really were hot, wouldn’t she feel warmer?
Would the priest keep his word and keep her secret? What if he had second thoughts, once she was out of sight? He was a most unusual priest to be involved with the underground. Maybe he wasn’t a priest? With so many question and no answers, the only thing Mel could think to do was check the Luger pistol the underground had provided. It was a pretty sweet weapon and it even had a silencer. Silent was good, though this launched another round of questions, ethical ones this time. Could she shoot an actual person, even one trying to shoot her? With so much riding on this operation, she hoped training would kick in when she needed it. This was not the time to hesitate and debate ethics and morals with herself.
In actual fact, it felt good to be armed, particularly after the incident with Kass. Hopefully he’d go home and be a little more careful in the future, but she doubted it. She’d humiliated him and he wasn’t the kind to take that lying down.
Mouy had brought two men with him, because Jack insisted he go with her to do the drop by the bunker. Mel had backed him up, because they needed to get inside and that would take both of them. They’d already agreed Jack would go in. Since Mel spoke German, she needed to stay outside.
Mouy and his men were dressed in complete German uniforms, but Jack, Mel and Larsen had dark pants and sweaters on under German great coats, which could be quickly shed if things went south and might prevent them being shot as spies. The boots and helmets were also authentic. Her dark pants weren’t sassy or tight fitting, like on the TV shows. They were overlarge and cinched on with a belt that fortunately did fit. Hopefully she wouldn’t lose the pants if things got physical. The sweater and coat were pretty warm, and she had a knitted cap hiding her hair that fit under the helmet. There was also a little tin of boot blacking, in case they needed to disappear into the night. At least it was a change from mud, though not as good for the complexion.
It had been agreed that Mel would ride behind the big seat of the truck and speak for Jack, who would be driving, and Larsen, riding shotgun. They were in the cab, since they’d be less likely to be recognized or remembered later, not being locals. The tricky part, of course, was how to let Jack know what he needed to do. They’d come up with some simple thump signals. Risky, but then the whole thing was loaded with risk, so why not that, too? Hopefully the truck’s engine noise would cover any glitches. It was only when she climbed into her hiding place behind the seat that she realized she was in for a rough ride—and one without a view. A pity she was going to miss seeing more of France at night. She’d so enjoyed the views so far. She’d get some unexposed film developed if she needed to bring back the memories when she got home.
She sighed. Sarcasm in your own head wasn’t nearly as satisfying. She’d become much too used to an audience.
Mouy, in a surprising moment of gallantry, had put some blankets behind the seat for her. It was sweet, and she was touched, even though they didn’t help much. There was something about the space that vigorously resisted comfort. Maybe it was a truck thing.
First, the engine fired with a truly hideous roar assaulting her senses from all sides. Then Jack put it in gear and released the brake, adding a bone jolting element to the mix. Mix was the right term for it, too. Now she knew what it felt like to be ice cream and milk in a mixer. Not that she’d ever wanted to know that. Only a couple of lifetimes later, the truck came to a jerking, jolting halt at what she presumed was the gate. A few moments after the truck stopped moving, Mel did, too—though there were a few aftershocks.
The engine was so freaking loud, Mel didn’t hear anything until a gruff voice asked for their papers. She was crouched just behind Jack, but was pretty sure she could throw her voice far enough in Larsen’s direction to sound convincing. And the engine was so freaking loud.
After a brief exchange with the guard, Mel thumped the seat to let Jack know he needed to proceed. It was almost too easy getting in. She had a feeling getting out might be the hard part. Their cover was a delivery to the Oberst’s private quarters. Mouy had had a rough sketch of the compou
nd that helped Jack steer a path to those quarters, to the rear, where there was a small storage room off an equally small kitchen. The trucks headlights were hooded, for the blackout, and cast light only a few feet ahead of them. Jack braked once, sharply, throwing Mel into the seat back. A new bruise for her collection.
Mel couldn’t see her watch, but it didn’t matter. She could feel time passing. It was like a tingling stream flowing over her skin and through her body. Mel flexed her fingers, and it felt as if time flickered and flexed with her. If this time flux had a center, this felt like this was it. The feeling had increased the closer they got. Now she felt like she’d shock anyone who touched her. Was there such a thing as being time-charged?
The truck lurched to a stop, adding at least one more bruise to Mel’s shoulder. He pulled in parallel to the building, so they could use it for cover. Mel slipped out after Larsen and immediately smelled coffee, sausage and apples. Sweet heaven. Real food. Her mouth watered and her stomach muttered a complaint. After days of a liquid diet, she didn’t blame it. Neither of them had ever been this hungry before. She waited with Jack and Larsen, her back pressed against the rough wall, while Mouy and his companions cautiously approached the kitchen.
Someone in white opened the door, a darker rectangle against the blank wall. Great care was being taken not to break the blackout.
“You are late. Unload it in here.” Mel projected an appropriate greeting and watched as Mouy followed him inside, his head down and face turned away from the man. When he came back out, he was alone.
“He’s taking a small nap,” Mouy explained, softly. “We must hurry. One is serving food to the Oberst. It seemed unwise to disturb him.”
They moved their charges into the storeroom, working silently and as quickly as they could. The RAF had dropped them the charges, five of them—one for each corner of the compound and the last for the middle and as close to the opening of the underground bunker as possible. They were long, gray cylinders and a bit on the heavy side.
Out of Time Page 24
