Hanni spent the next few hours in a storeroom with a high, tiny window adjacent to Otto Dietrich’s top floor office. She stared at the radio before she even dared touch it. Finally, however, she realized Dietrich was right. She was doomed. She contacted Moscow Center and relayed Dietrich’s proposition with fear and loathing, because she knew precisely what Moscow would do. A decision of this magnitude would never be reached by a mere duty officer. It would be run upstairs to Beria and probably to Stalin himself, so they kept her waiting. Long, painful minutes stretched into hours before she finally received a reply. Dietrich had his deal and Major Steiner had her orders. It was a matter of “Utmost Importance to the State” that she cooperate “fully” with Dietrich. Those German airplane designers must reach Russian lines, or she would suffer dire consequences. Hanni knew precisely what that meant. If she did not succeed, her father would die.
An hour later, Dietrich returned. Apparently, the suspense was more than even he could stand. “I assume they believed you, Fraulein?” he asked confidently.
“The Kremlin? They believe no one — not me and certainly not you. To them, you are worth nothing more than the goods you carry, so, yours had better be good. Yours had better be very good.”
Otto Dietrich kept Hanni Steiner alive and comfortable on the top floor of Gestapo headquarters with a cot, the radio, and two guards on the door, where she had nothing to do but think. He even released Horstmann and the other old men. “I will always know where to find them,” he said with a smile. And there is no telling what useful information they might pick up and bring back to you, he thought. As the days passed, the full impact of his cynical plan became clear to her. It was so simple and so logical that she knew he would get away with it. Despite the litany of crimes on his head and all the blood on his hands, the bastard would walk away scot free, or so he thought. If he looked carefully into her bright-blue eyes, he would see the cold fires still burning behind them. She had become a woman on a mission, a woman who would have her revenge. However, she must also find a way to give Moscow what they wanted, because they had her father. She would get them the German scientists, but Otto Dietrich was not part of the bargain. He and his Gestapo medallion would get them out of Leipzig and out of Germany, but he would die at her hands when they reached the Red Army lines. It was only a question of when and how, not if.
Unfortunately, her pact with the devil would prove very bad for poor Edward, she realized — poor darling Edward. Between her hatred for the Chief Inspector, her orders, and her love for her father, there was no room left for anyone else, least of all the young American Captain. He had been the only true, honest, and clean thing to come into her life in too many years to remember. When she sent him safely away on that small boat bound for England, she thought that at least one good thing would outlive this wicked war. Whatever else happened, whatever other disgusting things they forced her to do, she could die knowing that Edward Scanlon was alive in England, and he would know nothing about them.
Later, when that stupid old cripple Horstmann showed up at the front desk downstairs and asked to see her, Dietrich laughed at the old man’s nerve; but he allowed it, thinking he might yet have some use for whatever was left of her old network. When Horstmann told her that Edward had returned, that he was at the bookshop, and that he insisted on seeing her; Hanni broke down and wept. That damned fool! Why did he come back, she asked hopelessly, and why now? Horstmann did not need to tell her why. Deny it as she might, she already knew the answer; he came for her and nothing would stop him.
She felt ashamed and embarrassed. Having Edward learn the sick truth about what she was doing was more than she could bear. Worse, he would charge in and jam his fist into the gears of Otto Dietrich’s carefully laid plans. That would cost him his life and her father his life, too. She could not allow that, which was why she made her Faustian bargain with the devil and told Dietrich where he could find Scanlon, and why she insisted on being there to watch. Edward must be stopped; but if he were to be captured or killed, it would be at her hands, not the hands of that arrogant Nazi bastard. She owed Edward that much — to save him from Otto Dietrich’s basement or see him dead. Those were her only choices. It was tragic, she thought. She had had many lovers over the years, but he was the first man she had truly loved in return. It was tragic for him, and now it would be tragic for her, too.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
With Paul Von Lindemann behind the wheel of the small coupe, the two men drove southwest from Leipzig along a succession of narrow farm lanes. The dark sky behind them slowly brightened to a rich purple, then to a soft pink as the burnt-orange pall over the shattered city faded with the dawn. Gradually, the flat land gave way to the fog-shrouded foothills and dense pine forests of the Harz Mountains. Despite their time together riding through the countryside, the Luftwaffe Major remained a mystery to Scanlon. His skin was pale and his face appeared tired and drawn. Obviously, he had no more recovered from his airplane crash than Scanlon had from his session in Otto Dietrich’s basement.
“You’re sure that new airplane is worth all this trouble?” Scanlon asked.
“Like nothing you have ever seen before, Captain,” Von Lindemann said as a glow spread across his face. “I can tell you are not an aviator. The power, the raw speed she has… well, it is like having a rocket between your legs. Give the throttle a kick and stand her on her arse, and she will toss you around like a small child. The stick shakes, the blood drains from your face, and the fuselage gets so hot you sweat like a pig in the cockpit. Is she worth it, you ask? She is worth any price; you shall see, any price.”
“She?” Scanlon asked.
“Like any beautiful, powerful beast, she has a personality and demands a man’s full attention. What pronoun would you use?”
“Well, if she’s that good, why do I still see all those B-17s up there?”
“Because Hitler is a fool. His astrologers told him his wonder weapons would turn the tide of the war, so he kept them in reserve for his great counter-attack. What nonsense. By the time he released them, it was too late.” Von Lindemann wagged his finger. “However, if he had listened to us and turned them loose in October or November, even piecemeal as they became available, things would be far different today. Those B-17s you see would be parked on their runways back in England gathering dust, at least the ones that were still flying. Without all that airpower, your army would be stalled in France, our cities would still be standing, and the Me-262 would own the sky. God help us, but Hitler could actually be winning this damned war, Captain; and that would be a far worse abomination than the prospect of our losing it.”
Scanlon looked at him and could not quite be sure. Was the man serious, or had his demons already gnawed one too many pieces out of the poor guy?
“By the way,” Von Lindemann announced. “Our plan to take the Institute’s staff south may have run into a snag. The Gestapo is now responsible for internal security and counterespionage for the Reich’s most sensitive installations, so Uncle Heinrich now has its nose under our tent. SS headquarters on Prinz-Albrecht Strasse has told the Air Ministry that security is paramount, and their regional security chief in Leipzig is now in charge.”
“Otto Dietrich?”
“I’m afraid so, and he has decided that the Volkenrode center cannot be protected. It is too isolated and too risky, so the staff must be relocated. It appears we may only have a day or two before Herr Dietrich marches in and takes over. That is why our timing is so important, why I was so upset when you missed the drop zone.”
“I see, but can the Gestapo do that? Do they have that much power now?”
“Himmler versus Göring? A year ago, I would have said no; but now? Our fat Air Marshal cares more for his art collection than his airplanes, so I would not put my money on the Luftwaffe.”
“That means Dietrich knows about us, doesn’t it?”
“It is a strong possibility, so I have scheduled a meeting with Raeder and his staff for this morning
. They are not stupid men nor are they very brave, so they will need some coaxing before they go running south with us.”
Scanlon frowned. What was it Bromley said? It has all been arranged — a piece of cake? Isn’t that what the deceitful bastard said? “Tell me," he asked, “in London, I heard about a new Führer Order. Something about if Germany loses the war…”
“When, not if.”
“Okay, when Germany loses the war,” Scanlon continued. “They say Hitler has given orders that everything is supposed to go up in flames with him — the factories, the laboratories, even the men behind them — everything. They say he wants the country destroyed, all of it.”
“It sounds like him,” Von Lindemann answered with a fatalistic shrug. “He thinks we all failed him, so it will be like Wagner’s ‘Twilight of the Gods.’ He thinks he is Wotan, and he wants his Valhalla to go up in flames with him in one big Viking funeral.”
“Is it possible that’s what Dietrich’s up to? Do you think he’d kill them?”
“Dietrich?” Von Lindemann paused, thinking. “You have had more contact with the man than I; but no, I do not think so.”
“I don’t think so, either. He is a sadist, but he was never one of Hitler’s true believers. All he believes in is Otto Dietrich.”
“However, the man is Gestapo. Even if he will not do it, there are men under him who would without a second’s hesitation. He must follow orders and lead, or get out of their way. If he will not, they will kill him, too.”
Scanlon was getting a bad feeling. “There must be something in it for him, though, something big. If there weren’t, Dietrich wouldn’t be doing this.”
“Perhaps, but we cannot allow those engineers to fall into the hands of the Gestapo or of the Russians.”
“Agreed. So, do we go ahead and take them south?”
“Yes and quickly. We have two trucks at the Institute. If we only take the most important blueprints and files, we can pack them today and leave when it gets dark. When Herr Dietrich knocks on the gate tomorrow, we will be long gone and half-way to Bavaria." Von Lindemann turned toward Scanlon with a broad smile. "You can lose an army in those lovely alpine valleys and not find it for weeks.”
“If we can get there. They’ll have a dozen checkpoints between here and the Alps. You and I were lucky back there, but we won’t catch them by surprise the next time,” Scanlon said as he looked through the window at the rugged hills closing in around them. Bavaria was two hundred miles the wrong way, two hundred miles further away from Hanni; and there was nothing he could do about it now. Bromley! This is exactly how the bastard planned it. He let Scanlon think he was running fast and free, while all along Bromley was pushing him down the narrow corridor he had crafted for him.
“One other thing,” Scanlon offered. “The skies will be full of Allied airplanes, and London wants us to paint some white circles on the roofs of the trucks. That’s supposed to keep them from shooting us up on the road.”
“London said that?" Von Lindemann asked. “Painting targets on them seems a strange way to protect us; but I guess we have to trust they know what they are doing, don’t we?”
“This is turning out to be one hell of a strange war, isn’t it? Trust? I’m not even sure I know what that means anymore,” Scanlon replied. White circles? He could already hear the faint alarm bells going off in the back of his head. What was Bromley up to, anyway? "I’ll tell you one thing," Scanlon added as he turned and looked at him, “If I were calling the shots, I’d send a flight of B-17s over your Research Institute and level the place. Nothing personal, of course;" he smiled, “but it would save everyone a lot of trouble.”
“As long as we are being candid, Captain, that is what I would do, too. I do not trust the Russians, nor do I trust the British. For that matter, I am not entirely certain I trust you Americans with weapons like this either. Nothing personal, of course.”
“Of course not,” Scanlon agreed as the two men smiled politely at each other.
They drove along the country roads for several miles in silence until Scanlon asked a question that had been bothering him. “Tell me something, Major, what happens if some of your people don’t want to come with us?”
“My orders are quite specific. They all must come, because we shall not leave anyone behind for the Russians. No exceptions.”
“What if they refuse? What are you going to do, shoot them?”
“Me? Oh, of course, not,” Von Lindemann bristled at the mere thought. “You are the one who is supposed to do that if it becomes necessary, Captain. That should have been made abundantly clear in London. Why do you think we asked them to send someone?”
As the weeks passed and the Red Army drew inexorably closer to Leipzig, Hanni Steiner was given a freer and freer run of Otto Dietrich’s headquarters. No one had to tell the guards. They figured it out on their own, as did Dietrich’s assistants, none of whom dared utter a word. For the guards, this was not a good time to make trouble, not with the Eastern Front little more than a day’s drive away. It was obvious that she had the Chief Inspector’s protection, so they pretended she did not exist. It was perfectly logical; and in typically German fashion, the most logical solution is usually the best — for the time being.
Otto Dietrich had become increasingly uneasy about their evolving relationship, and knew it could not last. First, she was his prisoner, then a trustee, a parolee, and soon she would become his equal. The final, bitter twist would come when they crossed Russian lines and she would think she owned him. He could read it in her eyes. Every day they grew bolder and more vengeful, leaving him more vulnerable. He tried to project a confident front with his cute songs and little stories, pretending he feared nothing, least of all her. Keep the blonde bitch off balance and confused, he reasoned. That was his best defense, perhaps his only defense until he reached Moscow. Like his patience, though, it was wearing thin.
“I know what you are thinking, my dear,” he taunted her with his plastic and all-knowing smile. “I always know, because I can read minds; so, forget your thoughts of revenge. I will always know what you are thinking, what you are planning, and I will always be one step ahead of you, because I am invulnerable now. You shall see.”
He was not, however. He was a hollow fraud, and he knew it. Deep inside, he was terrified of what his future would bring — a Russian firing squad, an American hangman, or a vengeful blonde with a razor. For the moment, they needed each other; but in the end, he knew he must kill her. If he did not, she would surely kill him. Perhaps his men had been a bit rough on her. What did she expect? She chose this game of espionage, and it could be a rough one. The truth was in those blue eyes of hers, they were her Achilles’ heel. They told him she was not one to ever forgive or forget. Once she got those engineers in the waiting arms of the Red Army, she would kill him exactly as she vowed she would, with her bare hands.
So, his clock was ticking. It would only be a matter of days, two at most, before he could grab the engineers at Volkenrode and bolt east to Moscow. It would require some delicate timing. He had convinced Prinz-Albrecht Strasse that the Research Institute’s staff must be moved east to Leipzig. If he left too soon, however, and headed toward the Red Army lines and Berlin got wind of it, he would be a dead man. On the other hand, if he stayed in Leipzig and waited too long, the Reds would owe him nothing. It would require every trick in his bag to keep the Steiner woman under control until then. He would need her and her gold badge to pass through Red Army lines. After that, he would be dealing directly with Stalin and Beria. They knew what those jet airplanes meant; and they would give him the blonde bitch with a red bow tied around her neck, if that was what he wanted. She knew Stalin did not like loose ends any more than he did. Very soon now, she would be the one doing the begging. She would agree to be his whore, or she would spend the rest of her days in the Gulag.
It was a delicate game and he had everything under control, until that damned fool Scanlon had to show up. He was a wild card neithe
r of them wanted. When the Gestapo manhunts failed to find him, Dietrich had come to believe that the American had actually died two months before. After all, his monkey soldiers had done a thorough job on the young fool — broken ribs, missing fingernails, a concussion, bruises, starved, dehydrated, and all the rest. Yet somehow, as if by a miracle, here he was back in Leipzig again. Perhaps he was part cat after all. If so, the last of Scanlon’s nine lives was about to come to a quick and bloody end. Amateur night was over, Edward, my boy, he thought. You have interfered in Oz one time too many.
Still, how can a man ever understand a woman, Dietrich wondered. He would never have suspected Scanlon was back in town, much less alive, if she had not told him, if she had not insisted he arrest Scanlon when Horstmann told her where he was. She truly was a black widow, he concluded. Dietrich knew that Scanlon had been her lover and that he was undoubtedly the father of her unborn child, yet here she was handing him over to the Gestapo, virtually signing his death warrant as if he meant nothing to her. How cold-blooded. The fact that she would choose two dwarfs like Stalin and Beria over the handsome, intelligent young American proved the incredible power Moscow held over their networks. The raid on the bookseller’s house was her idea, not Dietrich’s, because she knew better than anyone that Scanlon was quite capable of wrecking their plans. To top it all off, like a typically addle-brained woman; she made Dietrich swear he would take Scanlon alive and unharmed. The nerve of the little bitch! She was trying to salve her conscience at his expense. Amazing.
Winner Lose All Page 14
