Winner Lose All

by William F. Brown

  Two doors down, another figure stepped from the shadows into the dim moonlight; and it was not Georg Horstmann. It was a tall man dressed in a Luftwaffe uniform like his. Well, not exactly like his. Scanlon wore Captain’s bars and this fellow was a Major with a Knight’s Cross First Class dangling around his neck. It had to be Von Lindemann, the Luftwaffe Major who Scanlon had been trying so hard to avoid. Scanlon immediately recognized the face from the photograph he had seen on Colonel Bromley’s desk.

  “Quick,” Von Lindemann snapped, as Scanlon continued to stare at him. “I have a car two streets over. It is the only chance we have; so move, you fool!” Scanlon did not wait. He began to run, but when he turned and looked back, he saw Von Lindemann trailing behind, limping badly. He was leaning painfully on a cane, his face wracked with pain. Classic, Scanlon thought. One of them had one usable hand and the other was a gimp. They would make one hell of a pair.

  Fortunately, the SS had only left one rear guard, so Scanlon and Von Lindemann made it to the next street, cut between two derelict buildings, and into the next street, where they found the Major’s small gray military staff car without a moment to spare. Scanlon jumped into the passenger seat, while Von Lindemann squeezed behind the wheel, threw the coupe into gear, and drove away, bumping and bouncing through the rubble in the dark street.

  “I was waiting for you at the drop zone, Captain,” Von Lindemann stated angrily. “I was told that was where you would meet me. What kind of game are you playing here? Your airplane flew right over me and… nothing.”

  “I had a little problem getting out the door, but I took care of it. How did you find me, anyway?”

  “I expected you might jump long. Amateurs always do, but not that long.”

  “You followed me all the way here?” Scanlon asked in disbelief.

  “Do not be ridiculous. Your pilot took the airplane down to the deck, and that was the last I saw of it. However, it was headed in the direction of Leipzig and I remembered from your file that you had worked here. So, I drove this way, hoping.” He turned in his seat and glared at Scanlon. “You do not seem to understand how important this is to us, what we have risked and what is at stake. We are depending upon you.”

  “As I said, Herr Major, I had a problem.”

  “A problem?” Von Lindemann fumed, knowing there was more to it; but he had his orders. “Lives are at stake,” he sputtered.

  “I’m here now, aren’t I?”

  “Blind luck, I would say. I raced down every back road I could find until I finally caught a glimpse of a man in a Luftwaffe uniform riding a bicycle. With all the rubble in the streets, I could not keep up; but I knew it had to be you. No real Luftwaffe officer would be caught dead on a contraption like that. We would rather sit by the side of the road and freeze to death.”

  Scanlon smiled. The two men continued to eye each other suspiciously, both knowing the other did not trust him one damned bit. Von Lindemann was no doubt wondering why the American missed the rendezvous, and why he headed east toward Leipzig and that bookshop, instead of west to Volkenrode. The OSS? It was nothing but a front for British spies, he would be thinking. On the other hand, Scanlon was equally unsure of this arrogant, aristocratic Luftwaffe Major. What game was he and the others really playing? Is he a plant, a double agent, or simply a fool? Given the stakes, anything was possible, including more trouble.

  Von Lindemann sped around the next turn only to run headlong into a roadblock. A black BMW sedan sat blocking the narrow street. There were two men leaning against the side of the car, arms folded nonchalantly across their chests, wearing black leather trench coats, snap-brim hats, and the smug expressions you could only find on bad cops.

  “Gestapo,” Scanlon said as his stomach leaped into his throat.

  “Say nothing. I shall handle it,” Von Lindemann told him as he braked and stopped in front of the BMW.

  The two secret policemen eyed them for a moment before they stepped forward and cautiously approached the staff car from opposite sides, each man with his right hand in his coat pocket. The one on the driver’s side leaned his forearm on the car door and stuck his head through the open window. Scanlon leaned back into the shadows with his hand on his own Luger, but the Gestapo man’s attention was primarily focused on Von Lindemann.

  “Good evening, Herr Major,” the Gestapo agent said in a polite, syrupy voice. “And where would we be going in such a rush at this late hour?”

  “I don’t know where we are going, Inspector,” Von Lindemann snapped, “but the Captain and I are headed back to our base to get the hell away from all that shooting back there. If you people cannot keep the criminal element under better control than that, perhaps the Führer should pack the lot of you off to the eastern front.”

  The Gestapo man’s eyes narrowed. “Sorry we disturbed the Major’s evening.”

  Scanlon kept his eyes straight ahead. The man talking was one of Otto Dietrich’s assistants. His face had been burned into Scanlon’s memory during his stay in the basement some eight weeks before. Worse, Scanlon knew the man would recognize him, too, if he ever got a good look. The man leaned further inside the car window and sniffed. “Isn’t it remarkable how the fresh smell of gunpowder will hang on the night air, Herr Major? May I borrow your pistol for a moment?”

  Scanlon sensed the Gestapo man on his side of the car stiffen when he heard the subtle warning. The man began to bring his right hand out of his coat pocket, and Scanlon knew what it would be holding. He reached out through the open car window, grabbed the fellow by his coat, and pulled, slamming his head against the edge of the sedan’s roof, hard enough to stun him for a moment and knock him off balance. The other Gestapo agent found himself stuck half-in and half-out of the car window trying to pull his own pistol out of his coat pocket, but he was too late. Scanlon pulled out his Luger and with one smooth motion, swung it across the seat, and pressed the barrel against the forehead of the Gestapo man on the Major’s side. For perhaps the first time in his life, the thug found himself looking down the wrong end of someone else’s gun. He stood nearly cross-eyed, lips quivering; but before he could say anything, Scanlon pulled the trigger and terminated the conversation with a deafening Bang! The Luger went off right in front of Von Lindemann’s face as the 9-millimeter slug snapped the Gestapo agent’s head back and bowled him over backward onto the pavement.

  “Mein Gott!” Von Lindemann screamed, his face misted with blood. “What are you…?”

  However, Scanlon was not listening. He still held the other man by the jacket, quickly swung the Luger back, and shot him in the chest. Both men had worked on him in Dietrich’s basement, so Scanlon felt no remorse from killing either one. “Go! Drive,” he shouted.

  Von Lindemann sat stunned, unable to react to what had happened right in front of him. “What have you…” was all he could say as he ran a hand across his face and saw blood on his fingers.

  Scanlon took a deep breath and placed a firm hand on Von Lindemann’s shoulder. “We’ve both seen worse, Major… and done worse. Now, get us out of here.”

  Von Lindemann blinked a few times, and then threw the small coupe into gear. He spun the steering wheel hard and bounced the car over the curb, onto the sidewalk, and around the next corner. Gradually, he seemed to regain his composure as they wound their way out of the city and into the countryside, before he broke his angry silence. “I could have talked us out of there, Captain. Killing those men was not necessary.”

  “Yes it was,” Scanlon answered as he held up his gloved hand. “The guy leaning in your window was one of the bastards who worked me over in Gestapo headquarters back in January. Once he smelled the gunpowder, it was all over. His pal on my side was going for his gun.”

  “Oh,” a chastened Von Lindemann finally replied.

  “This is what I do, Major. You told London you needed help getting out of here, so they sent me. Now I understand why.”

  Von Lindemann drove on in silence. Finally, he turned to Scanlon a
nd asked, “Why did you go to Leipzig, instead of hitting the drop zone? Do not tell me it was an accident.”

  “It’s none of your damned business. That’s between me and London.”

  “No, I know your orders, Captain, and it is my business. Too many good men have already died for some fool cowboy like you to jeopardize this entire operation.”

  “I’ve jeopardized nothing.” Scanlon slumped back in the car seat, frustrated. His plan to find Hanni had clearly blown up in his face; and here he was sitting in a Luftwaffe staff car heading west, away from Leipzig and any real chance of finding her. “I ran into some bad luck back there, that’s all,” he insisted, still refusing to believe that an old friend like Georg Horstmann would betray him to the Gestapo. Not Horstmann. Never! The old man was a rock. He would have spit in their face and died on the table before he would have given them the satisfaction of a single word. No, if the SS were at the bookstore, it was Horstmann they were after, he kept trying to convince himself. They were after the old man; it had to be. Scanlon took a deep breath and tried to clear his head. He had been counting on Horstmann’s help to get Hanni out, and now he would have to find some other way. She was the only reason why he returned to Germany to begin with. Now, alone and in Gestapo-land, his odds had just gotten very, very long.

  “The SS were waiting for you back there.”

  “No, it was probably a random raid,” he tried to sound confident.

  “A random raid? You must think I am stupid. Bad luck had nothing to do with this, and I did not bargain on trading pistol shots with the Gestapo or the SS. Good or bad, those men were my countrymen. You are not.”

  “Perhaps, but that didn’t stop you from shooting that guy in the alley, did it?”

  “I did no such thing!” Von Lindemann bristled.

  “Well, someone did, and it wasn’t me.”

  “I carry a 9-millimeter Luger. Those gunshots came from a small pocket gun, perhaps a 6.35 Mauser from the sound of it. Any fool can tell the difference.”

  Scanlon held up his own Luger. “This is all I’ve got, sport. The only people who carry small automatics like that are Berlin pimps or the Gestapo. But you and I were the only ones in that alley, except for the dead guy, so you must have heard wrong.”

  “Wrong about the caliber? Perhaps that is possible, but I did not shoot the fellow. If you say you did not shoot him either, who did?”

  It was obvious to Von Lindemann that this arrogant American had not been listening to a thing he said, so he turned his attention back to the road, knowing his prospects were turning bleaker by the hour. This reckless fellow would surely get them both caught, and Von Lindemann knew he would end his days dangling from a piano wire at Gestapo Headquarters, as far too many of his friends already had, branded as a traitor because they tried to stop that madman in Berlin. A traitor! The very word made Paul Von Lindemann cringe, but it was correct. He was conspiring with the enemy in time of war. The reasons be damned, that made him a traitor.

  The Von Lindemanns were old school: professional soldiers from the frozen Prussian marshes along the Baltic, whose genealogy stretched back to Frederick the Great and beyond. Paul could still hear his grandfather say, “Your duty is to the Kaiser and the state, my boy. To a Von Lindemann they are one and the same.” The old man stood as ramrod straight as his principles. “Gold braid and medals are not the measure of a good officer,” his father added. “It is in the breeding. A fat, ill-bred lout Hermann Göring could never understand that. As for that maniac Hitler, he has neither breeding nor good manners; but what can one expect from an Austrian and a Corporal to boot. God help us.”

  After ninety-six combat missions and eighteen confirmed kills, Major Paul Von Lindemann had nothing to prove to anyone. He had been awarded the Knight’s Cross First Class with Oak Leaf clusters and they did not hand those out to staff officers. After he was wounded, rather than accept the indignities of a desk job in Berlin, he volunteered to be a test pilot. He was one of seven men who risked their lives flying the Me-262 prototypes, and one of only two who survived. Now, the same Generals who asked him to test their vaunted jet airplane were the ones who pulled him aside and told him he must hand over its secrets to their enemies. In his head, he understood why; but in his heart and in the pit of his stomach, he knew it was all terribly wrong.

  Besides, did it really matter? Probably not, because he was a pessimist. He saw first hand what Germany had done to the rest of Europe, which was why he had no desire to live in it after this war was over. There should be some shred of honor in any war, and there was none left in this one. Survive it? He was a cripple and would always walk with a limp and a cane, not that his personal fate made any difference to his beliefs. Neither did his proud family name or the Von Lindemann estates in East Prussia. They had been overrun by the Russians weeks before, and he knew he would never see them again. They would soon be collective farms in the “German People’s Republic,” or whatever the Communists would call themselves. As for spending the rest of his days amusing ill-bred louts like this American? That was unacceptable. He should steal an airplane and get himself shot down in a blaze of glory, or join the infantry and die from the last bullet of the war. At least that would carry` some dignity and honor. He was now a physical wreck and so was his family, his beloved Prussia, and his nation. For Paul Von Lindemann, there was no longer any reason to continue the farce. He had no desire to live one day longer than it would take to complete this assignment.

  He thoroughly despised this reckless fellow Scanlon. The man admitted he was a killer. He said that was what he does. So, why should Von Lindemann think Scanlon’s OSS would prove to be any different than the Gestapo or SS? Would the Americans be more benevolent conquerors than the Germans? Would the heady rush of power prove any less seductive to them than it had to his own people? It would take time to know the answers, and Paul Von Lindemann had no desire to wait that long to find out. However, he had his orders. To a Von Lindemann, even a broken one, it was a matter of honor; so he would obey.

  “Incidentally,” Von Lindemann added, to further aggravate the American, “that car which pulled up in front of the bookshop was a pre-war Maybach, a rare old gem. As you may or may not be aware, there is only one car like that in Leipzig and it belongs to Chief Inspector Dietrich of the Gestapo. There is no mistaking the car or the man, I am afraid. And if the car was there, so was he. If he was there, he was in charge, and if he was, it was you that they were hunting. There was no bad luck involved or any random search. He would not come out in the middle of the night for nonsense like that. No, he knew you had come and he knew where to find you. That means you have a leak. Someone gave him that information.”

  Otto Dietrich! Scanlon broke out in a cold sweat at the name. “This operation came up very fast in London,” he said. “Only a handful of people knew about it and they are at the very top. So if there was a leak, it is here at your headquarters or out at the Institute.”

  “No, Captain. If there was a leak at our end, I would have been dancing at the end of a piano wire days ago and you would already be lying on one of those tables in Herr Dietrich’s basement, spilling your guts. So, I assure you, the leak must be in London.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Otto Dietrich sat behind the wheel of his vintage Maybach, waiting patiently for his SS troops to finish surrounding Georg Horstmann’s bookshop, pleased by the prospect he would soon have the elusive American OSS Captain in his grasp again. He ran his fingers across the decorative hand-tooled leather on the car’s dashboard and smiled. Made in 1932, she was sleek and black, with twelve cylinders of chrome-plated power and elegance. In her day she was the very finest that German craftsmanship had to offer.

  His father had been an automobile mechanic. He was a cold, brutal bastard to his sons; but young Otto always marveled at how delicate and tender those rough, grease-stained hands could be when working on the engine of a fine automobile. Even as a lowly police recruit living in a Spartan, cold-water flat a
bove his father’s garage, Otto dreamed of owning a car like this. It was the kind of thing that would make heads turn when he drove by — even his father’s. In the late 1920s, owning an automobile of any type was an impossible dream for a humble police patrolman who could barely pay for a second uniform. Ten years later, the price of a fine piece of machinery such as this had dropped to two exit visas for a Jewish banker so desperate to leave Germany that he would have given anything. Unfortunately, Dietrich’s mechanic father had drunk himself to death long before the Chief Inspector acquired the Maybach, denying him the gratification of driving past the old bastard’s shop. Now, the war was slowly grinding to a very bad end, and he knew he would be forced to give up this marvelous old automobile and the absolute power he had used to obtain it.

  Before that happened, though, Otto Dietrich had one small piece of unfinished business to attend to: US Army Captain Edward Scanlon. Dietrich had been humiliated when Scanlon’s terrorist friends broke into his Gestapo headquarters two months before and shot their way back out with the young American Captain in tow. He bristled as he remembered how his friends at Gestapo headquarters in Berlin kept reminding him of the humiliating incident, and humiliating Otto Dietrich was an exceedingly dangerous thing to do. It made things very personal. After Scanlon broke out of jail, Dietrich went on a rampage, tearing the old city apart looking for the American and his accomplices. Unfortunately, his only consolation was to personally put three bullets into the Englishman Kenyon. Dietrich was a good shot with his small caliber Mauser pistol, but hitting Kenyon from over a hundred yards with three of four shots from a pocket gun was as much a sign of his towering rage as his expert marksmanship. If it had been Scanlon, he would have hit him with all four. In the weeks that followed, Dietrich threw his net far and wide and rolled up much of the Communist spy network in Saxony, but even that coup could not settle his score with Scanlon. Soon, however, I shall put a painful end to your meddling, my young American friend, he swore.