“You sound disappointed.”
“He is the most truly honorable man Germany produced in this war. He saw his duty and he tried to carry it out, knowing full well what would happen to him if he failed.”
“What would have happened had he succeeded?”
“One can only surmise,” Von Lindemann paused, thinking. “With the war in more capable hands, it might have gone on longer. The cruelty and barbarism might have stopped, but as for all the rest? Germany would still be losing.”
“Well, if Stauffenberg made it last one day longer, he would have been the most dangerous man you produced.” The Major offered no reply, so Scanlon let it drop.
Von Lindemann drove through the center of the deserted compound, parking his small coupe near the camp office. “Act as if you know exactly what you are doing,” he said with a forced a smile. “Around here, no one questions a man in uniform.”
“Too bad I don’t have a clipboard.”
“Ja, a clipboard and a briefcase!” Von Lindemann laughed. “That would indeed make the disguise complete.” Despite the tension of the past few hours, Scanlon and the melancholic German shared that much at least. “As they say, it is show time, mein Herr,” he added as their eyes met; and for the first time, a thin bond was forged. Hopefully, it would last, Scanlon thought. Hopefully, it would be enough.
In the office, the two men grabbed a meager breakfast of black bread and ersatz coffee before Von Lindemann summoned the handful of remaining senior staff to tell them of the change in plans. Scanlon slipped into the rear corner of the small cafeteria with his arms folded across his chest, appearing half-awake as the staff members entered the room. He immediately recognized them from the photographs on Bromley’s desk back in London. The first to arrive was Rudy Mannfried, a short, fat man with pink cheeks and a high-pitched, effeminate laugh. As surprising as it seemed, Mannfried invented the Me-262’s revolutionary weapons system. With four 30-millimeter cannon built into the nose, plus pods of 50-millimeter rockets that hung beneath its stubby wings, the small jet packed enough firepower to blast a B-17 out of the sky with one pass.
“Pauli, my dear fellow!” Mannfried gushed as he zeroed in on the Luftwaffe Major. “What did you bring me from civilization, eh? Sausage and pastries, I hope. My God, we are out of practically everything in this hell-hole.”
“Sorry, Rudy,” Von Lindemann apologized. “I was not there long enough.”
“No? Well, you should have called Göring then,” Mannfried complained loudly. “I doubt that fat fool is going without anything this morning.”
Von Lindemann laughed. “I shall convey your warmest regards to the Reichsmarshal the next time he invites me up to Carinhall for tea.”
“Surely, he could have spared us some crumbs,” Rudy shrugged. “What can he do, send me to the Russian Front?”
“No, but he can have you shot for spreading defeatist propaganda,” answered a tall, gaunt man who stepped into the room behind him. Scanlon remembered that grim expression on the photo of Dr. Eugen Bracht, the Institute’s chief metallurgist. He designed the jet’s airframe and skin, one of the main reasons it could reach speeds of almost 600 miles per hour, a hundred miles per hour faster than any Allied piston-driven fighter planes.
“But the Reichsmarshal loves me, Eugen; he told me so himself.” Mannfried said with round, innocent eyes. “Remember when he pinned those cute medals on us? He even gave me a little hug,” he said as he threw his arm around the taller man’s waist.
“Don’t touch me, you pervert,” Bracht hissed as he pushed him away.
“Oh, Eugen,” Mannfried continued, undeterred. “Those medals looked so pretty, didn’t they? Too bad we cannot trade them for a good Viennese chocolate cake. That would be more to my taste today.”
“Young boys would be more to your taste,” Bracht said, his face as stern as an undertaker’s, “but you’re not likely to get your fill of either one for a long, long time.”
“Eugen, Eugen, let’s not be so spiteful in front of our guests.” Mannfried feigned embarrassment. “We all have our little peccadilloes. Göring knew of mine years ago, and he does not give a tinker’s damn about them. As long as we design airplanes that are better than the Allies, the Reichsmarshal doesn’t care how our tastes run, be they Viennese chocolate, young men, someone else’s wife, or a tall, ungainly metallurgist.”
Bracht’s eyes bulged and his face turned scarlet. “That degenerate Göring might protect you, but I doubt Reichsführer Himmler will.”
“My, but we are testy this morning,” Mannfried said as he turned toward Von Lindemann and Scanlon with a wink. “I suspect Herr Himmler has enough on his plate at the moment; but if you want to telephone him in Berlin, be my guest, Eugen.”
“Are you two at it again?” A new voice chimed in from behind them. From his thin, steel-rimmed glasses and unkempt hair, it could only be Emil Nossing, the Center’s expert on wind tunnel design and aerodynamics. “Brave talk about Himmler, Eugen. As I recall, you both ran off to change your pants when that Gestapo fellow showed up yesterday.”
“Dietrich?” Von Lindemann quickly asked. “He was here? I gave strict orders that no one was to talk to outsiders while I was gone.”
“Then you should have told that to the Chief Inspector, but I doubt he cares much about your orders, Major,” a sarcastic voice answered from the doorway. “And neither do I.”
Scanlon turned and immediately recognized the chief of the design team, Dr. Wolfe Raeder. He was the brilliant mathematician from Berlin who computed all of the engine and airframe drag and thrust coefficients essential to design the control systems. He was a wiry little man in a white lab coat with disheveled hair and dark, manic eyes who looked like he had caught his finger in a light socket. Behind him stood an awkward-looking teenage girl in loose-fitting mechanic’s overalls. She could not be more than seventeen or eighteen years old, Scanlon thought, standing like her father with her fists buried in her pants pockets. From the pale skin, haunted eyes, and equally choppy hair, this must be Christina, his daughter. Raeder strode into the center of the room as if he owned it, with his chin up and his arms folded across his chest. When he saw Scanlon standing in the corner, he paused to give the stranger a quick, appraising glance. “More Luftwaffe help?” he asked suspiciously. “One would think you people had other things to do with your time, like flying airplanes and winning the war.”
Scanlon smiled. “Then it follows that you and your group must be very important to the Third Reich, mustn’t it, Herr Doktor?”
The ploy caught Raeder off guard. He knew he was being played, but his ego would not allow him admit it. “And you are…?”
“Captain Schmitt, at your service, Herr Doktor,” Scanlon replied, with a curt but deferential nod of his head.
Raeder took a second and more careful look at Scanlon, unsure how to deal with this young officer. Accustomed to hostility, Scanlon’s friendly smile made Raeder wary.
“Herr Dietrich was here?” Von Lindemann asked Raeder directly.
“Yes, late yesterday, just after you left.”
“What did he want?” Von Lindemann demanded.
“He wants to move us to Leipzig,” Raeder told him. “He says we are no longer safe here, and told us to begin packing. Orders from Berlin. He will return tomorrow with trucks.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I told him we began packing some time ago, but where we agree to go remains an open question, and a very negotiable one, you could say.”
“You fool!” Von Lindemann glared at him.
“Really! Well, Herr Dietrich makes a very good point about Leipzig. There is no telling who or what will soon be coming through these woods — enemy paratroopers, commandoes, or even common criminals. As for your notion of our leaving here and heading south to the Alps, well, that borders on suicide now.”
“You told Herr Dietrich about our plans?”
“Of course not, Major. He is the Gestapo, after all; but that
does not mean he is wrong. In fact, it makes good sense, good sense to all of us,” Raeder said as he glanced around at the other staff members.
Scanlon shook his head. “The Major and I were in Leipzig last night, and that is the last place you want to be. The city has been heavily bombed. There is nothing but death and destruction everywhere, and the Red Army is closing in.”
“Nonsense!” Raeder said. “Chief Inspector Dietrich personally assured us that we will be safe there. He said there has been very little damage in Leipzig. The Russians remain hundreds of miles to the East, held at bay by our valiant troops in Poland, precisely as Herr Goebbels has been telling us on the radio.”
“And you believed that?” Scanlon scoffed.
“Of course. So there is no reason to rush off on some dangerous adventure south with the two of you. The Chief Inspector has offered us his protection in Leipzig until General Patton arrives, well ahead of the Russians. That is good enough for me.”
“Ahead of the Russians? He is selling you to them. Patton’s army has swung south into Bavaria. It is the Russians who will soon be in Leipzig and he knows it,” Scanlon told him as he looked around at the other men’s confused faces. If Dietrich filled their heads with fairy tales about Patton and how he was going to protect them in Leipzig, then he must want them badly. “The news is all over the streets in Berlin, Herr Doktor. Roosevelt made a deal with Stalin at Yalta two months ago. They drew a line on a map. The Russians get Berlin, Dresden, Leipzig, and everything else east of Braunschweig. Herr Dietrich knows that.”
“Everything east of Braunschweig?” Emil Nossing asked in disbelief. “Even Berlin?”
“And us, too?” Rudy Mannfried whispered, clearly terrified.
“Preposterous! Roosevelt would never give Berlin to the Russians.” Eugen Bracht shook his head. “Not even the Americans could be that stupid.”
“More lies from the Luftwaffe,” Raeder exclaimed derisively. “You want to scare us in order to keep us under your control. Who could believe such a story?”
Scanlon looked at each of them in turn. “You’re like the Seven Dwarfs; you’ve lived here in your own little world for so long, you have no idea what’s going on outside.”
Mannfried, Bracht, and Nossing exchanged quick, nervous glances; but they said nothing, no longer knowing whom to believe. Raeder was not as reticent. “You are asking us whether we would be safer in Leipzig under the protection of the Gestapo and the Waffen SS or out on the open road with two Luftwaffe staff officers and a handful of guards? You insult our intelligence.” Raeder looked at them contemptuously.
It was clear from their faces that the other three did not entirely agree with Raeder, but they did not disagree with him either.
Scanlon knew if he did not take charge now, he would lose them for good. He stood with his hands on hips and feet firmly planted, and glared quickly around the room; pinning each of them with his withering, steel-gray eyes. He warmed up on Rudy Mannfried but saved his best glare for the good Doktor, with a hint of homicidal maniac thrown in for effect. Raeder withered in a matter of seconds.
“All right, you are forcing us to reveal a top secret plan, Herr Doktor, a Führer Order, no less. That means everyone in this room is now sworn to strictest secrecy under pain of death. Is that perfectly clear? The Führer has decided that Group Raeder here, as he now calls you, are critical to the Reich and the final prosecution of the war. He has seen fit to include you in the Alpenfestung, his brilliant plan for the Reich Defense Zone in the Alps, where Doktor Raeder is to redouble his efforts to design a new generation of aircraft. The Führer is moving his own headquarters there next week, where you are to join him. That is why he sent me here, to escort you on the trek south.” Finally, turning back to face Raeder, Scanlon added, “With all of your important contacts in Berlin, I assumed you knew all about this, Herr Doktor.”
“Well… I uh, yes,” Raeder tried to bluff.
“Frankly, I am also surprised that Herr Dietrich is so uninformed,” Scanlon added. “I do not know why Reichsführer Himmler decided not to put him on the need-to-know list. Perhaps he no longer trusts him. So, I suggest you be very careful around the Chief Inspector from now on. If you go with him to Leipzig, he would be taking you right into the path of the Red Army; and you would immediately incur Himmler’s wrath. That is why the Führer wants you to go south and join him in Bavaria, where you will truly be safe.”
“The Führer is going to Bavaria?” Nossing asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
”And ignore the Chief Inspector?” Raeder dared add.
“This is a Führer Order, Herr Doctor. He is bestowing a great honor upon you. Disobeying or countermanding it is treason — treason. That is why I know we will have your full cooperation, won’t we.”
Raeder stared at him, struck dumb and not knowing what to do.
Scanlon did not wait. “Good! For security reasons, we are advancing our plans. We shall leave tonight at sunset, so there is a lot to do if we’re going to be ready.”
Rudy Mannfried, Emil Nossing, and even Eugen Bracht seemed pleased. The only one who was not pleased was Wolfe Raeder, but he did not dare say anything. Behind him, Scanlon saw Christina Raeder. She stood watching and listening, her dark eyes darting from face to face, questioning and wondering.
As the others filed out of the room, Von Lindemann stepped up behind Scanlon and whispered in his ear. “The Alpenfestung? A Führer Order? And ‘Group Raeder’? You are completely mad, you know… and to think you did it all without a clipboard.”
Scanlon said nothing. He just smiled.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Christina Raeder reached out through the kitchen window to water the geraniums in her flower box. They seemed so sad, she thought, so pale and leggy. They never received enough sunlight here, deep in the forest, and she could see they did not like this place any more than she did. It was so depressing after all the wonderful years she spent in Berlin while Papa taught at the university. She still had vivid memories of the gymnasium, the elementary school she attended, her small circle of bubbly girl friends, and the bustling streets of the pre-war capital. It was so full of life with crowded trams, noisy automobiles, and people, not that Papa cared. All he did was complain about university politics, rant about professional backstabbing, and have violent arguments with Mama.
“Frauds and charlatans!” he would fume. Christina was only twelve when Mama had her accident and died. No one would tell her anything, but Papa told her he had this new job here at Volkenrode and they suddenly moved. After seven years here in the woods, she craved people, crowds of them, honking cars, and city noise. Like her poor geraniums, she had her fill of the deep woods and she was tired of being alone. Until a few years ago, the Research Institute had a school and other children. When the other staff sections were shut down and their families sent home, the school was closed. Papa had never allowed her to attend it anyway. He tutored her himself because of her special gift, as he called it. “They will never understand, so we must keep it our secret, Christina, just you and I,” he would tell her. Now, she rarely left the laboratory, their cottage, or his sight; and she never left the Research Institute, not that it mattered to her any longer. She had learned to adapt. When she wanted companionship or to take a trip, she pulled out Mama’s old Victor phonograph and the opera recordings she left her. Other than a few faded photographs hidden in a dresser drawer, the phonograph records were all Christina had left of her. She would put one on, close her eyes, and let her wild things loose.
By the age of three, she could do complex arithmetic. By four or five, she could solve equations in her head; but no one believed her, especially not Papa. As the years continued to pass, her ability to manipulate higher and higher levels of abstract mathematics expanded at an alarming rate. By the age of seven, she was solving algebraic equations she found in his books and mathematical journals. By nine or ten, even Papa stopped doubting her gift. Yet it was all so simple for her. All she did was clo
se her eyes and concentrate. Soon, the dull black numbers and symbols on the page would take flight. They would change colors and flash around inside her head in vivid reds, greens, and yellows set against a clear blue sky. They were her wild things! That was how she saw them — flocks of wild tropical birds swirling, tumbling, and changing shapes with infinite speed and amazing complexity until a pattern emerged, the swirl of characters became distinct, and the answer settled down on the paper in front of her.
When she was young, the wild things were her toys and companions. She would close her eyes and amuse herself by playing with them for hours, but that terrified Mama. She thought Christina had fallen into a trance or was having a seizure. Mama would grab her by the shoulders and shake her, making Christina cry when her lovely wild things flew away.
“It is a gift!” Papa would scream.
“A gift? No, it is a curse!” Mama would scream back, and the next argument would begin all over again.
Christina was playing her favorite recording of Verdi’s Rigoletto when Papa came home that morning. It was the duet between Rigoletto and his daughter Gilda in Scene Two. Normally, she would turn the recording off the instant she heard him at the door, but that day she no longer cared what he thought.
“How is my little Gilda this afternoon?” he asked, sounding unusually friendly.
“I am not Gilda,” she mumbled, knowing he wanted something. Mama had warned her. When he pretended to like her music, he was trying to get in her good graces.
“Of course you are Gilda,” he insisted. “I keep you locked up in this compound with no friends, no visitors, and no boys, just like that old goat Rigoletto did to his lovely daughter Gilda. Don’t you think I know that?”
Winner Lose All Page 16
