The girl kicked the gun out of reach as Captain Mueller lunged forward again. Enraged, he struck her with the back of his heavy hand across the face. A livid mark stained the whiteness of her face and she fell against the desk, her hands pressed to the angry red mark.
MICHAEL rose, cat-like, to his feet.
His narrow face was tense and the centers of his yellow eyes were smoky pools of savage rage.
“You are effective against women, Captain,” he said softly. An inarticulate growl sounded deep in the German officer’s throat as he charged forward, his fists swinging like mallets.
Michael side-stepped and snapped a hard left into his face. Captain Mueller’s head jerked back and blood trickled from his mouth.
“Dog!” he roared.
He lowered his bullet-shaped head and rushed Michael, backing him toward a corner. Michael’s left hand flicked out, again and again, like the darting tongue of a snake, blinding the charging German. But Captain Mueller’s superior weight and strength drove the American relentlessly back until he was trapped in a corner of the room.
Ducking a round-house right swing Michael stepped in close and drove a hard, chopping right into the German’s jowls. The punch packed behind it all of his wiry power and he felt its shock all the way to his elbow.
The captain staggered back, cursing madly through his blood-frothed lips. Michael stepped in again, recklessly. He knew he had to finish this quickly or the guards would be drawn to the scene by the noise.
He swung again, but Mueller blocked the blow and countered with a vicious right, Michael’s guard was down and the blow landed solidly on his jaw, slamming him back against the wall. His head snapped back, crashing into the wall, and a million streaking lights exploded in his brain.
His knees sagged; his head slumped down on his chest. Through a red fog of pain he could dimly see Captain Mueller’s stocky figure standing in front of him, gloatingly expectant.
He tried to lift his arms but he lacked the strength. His breath was a rasping pain in his throat. He knew he was through, that this was the end.
Captain Mueller turned suddenly and crossed the room with rapid strides. He bent and picked up the gun from the floor and turned back to Michael, the ugly blue hole in the Luger barrel centered unwaveringly on his stomach.
“You have lost, Herr Faber,” Captain Mueller said, his breath coming heavily. “There will be no trial and execution for you. I will provide both.”
Michael lifted his head slowly. He saw the bestial triumph in Mueller’s eyes and he saw the twitching muscles of the hand that held the Luger; and he knew that he was facing death.
Suddenly an English voice roared in the room.
Mueller started and swung half way around. The red-haired girl, Michael saw, had flicked on the powerful receiving set; the voice in the room was that of the B.B.C. announcer. But the ruse had diverted, for an instant, the German’s attention; had given Michael one thousand-to-one chance. And he took that chance.
GATHERING his fading strength, he hurled himself across the room at the German’s surprised figure. Mueller wheeled, whipping the gun about to cover Michael. But he was too late. Michael drove into his gun arm, doubling the wrist inward and, as the two men crashed to the floor, a muffled explosion sounded.
The girl screamed as a hoarse, strained gasp followed the sound of the shot. She dropped to her knees and pulled Michael from the German’s body. There was blood on his shirt front but it was from the oozing stain that was spreading slowly over Captain Mueller’s chest.
Her lips moved in a silent prayer. “Thank God,” she murmured. She pulled Michael’s head close to her and he opened his eyes and smiled faintly.
“Pleasant as this is,” he said, “we’ll have to postpone it for a while.”
He stood up and turned down the radio.
“That was a neat trick,” he said, looking down at her. “It undoubtedly saved my life, which isn’t so important, but the work I have to do is important. Thank you for that.”
He helped her to her feet.
“You fooled me again when he came in,” he said. “I thought surely I’d misjudged you. I believed you when you said you’d come here to trick me into revealing myself as a British agent.”
“It was the only thing I could do,” the girl answered. “We are lucky he was stupid enough to believe me. Now we must plan to get you out of here. Do you think the guard could have heard the shot?”
“It isn’t likely,” Michael said. “The radio was on full blast and the sound of the shot was muffled. Our luck is still holding.”
He unfolded the paper of instructions he still held in his hand and studied it intently, a faint frown forming on his lean face.
“This is urgent,” he said. “Every second, now, is precious. Get ready to leave. I’ll dispose of the body in a less conspicuous spot. It won’t be discovered until tomorrow morning. And by that time our work will be done.” Michael opened the door and glanced up and down the corridor. Seeing that the way was clear he bent and hoisted the heavy body of the dead German officer to his shoulder and stepped into the corridor. Lurching under his awkward burden he moved silently down the hallway until he reached an intersecting corridor. He followed this for several yards until he came to a small closet. Opening the door he dumped the German’s body on the floor and covered it with a tarpaulin he found hanging on the wall.
Then he closed and locked the door. As he started back a sudden, chilling scream shattered the stillness. Michael froze in the darkness of the hall, his heart pounding. A thousand speculations seemed to crowd his brain.
The scream sounded again, a helpless, terror-filled cry of anguish that chilled the marrow in his bones. He hesitated for another second, his mind working with lightning-speed, then he broke into a charging run.
CHAPTER V
AS MICHAEL raced toward the sound of the scream he realized with sudden helplessness that he was completely unarmed. He had left the German’s Luger lying on the floor of the radio room.
He charged recklessly around the corner of the corridor. But the sight that met his eyes brought him to a sudden, incredulous halt.
Marie was standing in front of the open door of the radio room, her body stiffened in a posture of terror and a white mask of dread stamped on her lovely features.
But there was no one else in sight. There was nothing to account for her expression of terror. She was completely alone in the dimly lighted corridor.
As Michael started toward her, his eyes followed the gaze of her wide, horror-filled eyes and he suddenly saw what had attracted her frightened, fascinated stare.
In the gloom of the corridor, not a foot from her face, a heavy black gun was visible, menacing her with its grim blue-holed muzzle.
The gun was suspended in the air, five feet from the floor, a chilling, unnatural spectacle that apparently defied the laws of gravity.
Then Michael saw the shadowy hand that held the gun, and against the uncertain gloom of the hall he made out a vague spectral shape crouched before the girl’s terrified figure.
A flood of relief washed over him.
“Paul!” he cried. He broke into £ run. “Don’t shoot; it’s all right.”
He saw the shadowy suggestion of a head turn toward him, then the gun lowered slowly. The girl leaned weakly against the wall. There was pathetic relief in her eyes as she saw Michael, but a wordless horror still lingered on her white features.
“Michael,” she gasped. “What is it? Am I losing my mind?”
Michael put his arm about her slim bare shoulders and drew her close to him. She laid her head against his breast, sobbing.
“There’s nothing to fear,” he murmured. “This is Paul Cheval, the man who eliminated Heydrich.”
“But—”
“I know. You can’t see him. But neither can the Gestapo, which is quite an advantage.”
A FAINT humming sounded, grew louder, finally fading away to an indistinct murmur. Gradually the shadowy shap
e of Paul Cheval materialized. He stood before them, the gun still held in a hand at his side, his dark face grimly anxious. The invisibility head-piece was still strapped to his forehead.
Michael introduced him to the girl and rapidly explained to her how he had come into possession of the headpiece at the destruction of Lidice.
Paul glanced nervously down the darkened corridors.
“There is not much time for talk,” he said. “The Storm Troopers of Captain Mueller are outside, waiting for a signal from him to enter. They will not wait much longer.”
“I am leaving for Berlin immediately,” Michael said. “You’ve got to hold the Troopers for a few minutes, Paul, while Marie and I slip out the back door. I have just received information from London that the second front will soon be opened on the continent. My orders are to contact every underground worker I possibly can with this news. We’ve got to strike at the Nazis with everything we’ve got. Rumors, assassinations, sabotage—all of these must be increased a hundredfold. We’ve got to give the Storm Troopers and Gestapo so much to do inside Europe that they’ll take their eyes off the outside. Our job is to turn the continent of Europe into a cauldron of boiling trouble for the Nazis. Heydrich’s death is only the start. From now on nothing must stop us.”
Paul nodded. “Nothing shall stop us. The people of this region are ready for open revolt. Already fifteen hundred innocent hostages have been killed for the assassination of Heydrich. And more will be killed every day. The people have reached the breaking point.”
“Good!” Michael snapped. “The Nazis are choking themselves to death with their own blood lust.” He reached out suddenly and gripped Paul’s shoulder. “When I finish my assignment in Berlin I am going back to London. Those are my orders. A camouflaged R.A.F. plane will pick me up when my work is done. But the fight here must go on. You must not falter, Paul. The second front is coming, but the dominated peoples inside Europe must prepare for it as carefully as our Allies outside Europe.”
He broke off suddenly. Through the dark building came the echoing tread of swiftly striding booted feet.
“The Storm Troopers of Captain Mueller!” Marie cried.
“We must go!” Michael said softly. “This is goodbye, Paul. Hold them for a few seconds, at least. That will give us a start.”
Paul’s hand flicked up to the dial on his head-piece. The humming noise sounded and then his body faded slowly, almost imperceptibly, into the dark gloom of the corridor. His eyes were visible for a last instant, cold and gleaming in the blackness.
“I will hold them,” he whispered. “Now go!” His formless, invisible hand touched Michael’s arm for an instant. “Until we meet again.” Then he faded away toward the sound of advancing troopers.
Michael took Marie’s hand and ted her swiftly through the blackened corridors, toward a rear door, which he knew would be unguarded.
A shot suddenly echoed through the building, followed by hoarse, confused shouts. Another shot rang out. And the sound of booted feet scrambling for cover could be heard.
Michael’s hand gripped Marie’s tightly as they slipped from the building into the narrow alley-way that flanked it. His thin face was set in hard lines; his yellow-green eyes flashed in the darkness.
The sound of another shot was heard; three more followed in quick succession.
“Michael!” Marie whispered tensely. “Has Paul a chance of escaping?”
“Perhaps,” he said. “But if he doesn’t, he’ll send a number of Nazis to hell before they get him. Come, we have to hurry.”
CHAPTER VI
THE sleek light bomber settled gracefully to a sprawling landing field on the outskirts of Berlin. The pilot cut the throbbing roar of the engines as the plane taxied to a stop facing the administration buildings of the field.
An attendant ran to the plane and adjusted a portable stairway to the gleaming side of the ship. Then he swung open the door.
“Thank you,” Michael Faber said, smiling. “I see that you received my radio message. Is the car waiting?”
“Yes, Herr Faber,” the attendant said, “everything is in readiness. Do you wish to leave immediately?”
“Yes. Speed is essential.”
“I will take you to your car.” Michael strode down the sloping walk to the field. Marie Kahn followed him, walking carefully on her high-heeled evening shoes. She wore Michael’s suit coat over her bare shoulders.
Michael held her hand tightly as they hurried across the field to where a low-slung, powerful car awaited them.
“Our luck is still holding,” he whispered. “Obviously Mueller’s body hasn’t been discovered yet.”
The slanting rays of false dawn were coloring the blackness of the eastern horizon and, despite the season, there was a noticeable chill in the air.
The landing-field attendant opened the door of the waiting car with a flourish and stepped aside.
“You will be at your destination in twenty minutes, Herr Faber,” he said. He smiled brightly. “I trust I have handled everything to your satisfaction, Herr Faber.”
“Absolutely,” Michael said. “And I shall see that word of your good work is passed on to your superiors.”
“Oh, thank you, Herr Faber.” Michael helped Marie into the car and stepped in after her.
“Central Intelligence,” he said to the driver, a stocky, blonde man wearing, a corporal’s uniform. “And hurry!” The driver nodded without turning. The gears of the car meshed smoothly and it shot away from the field, rapidly gathering speed.
Michael looked down at the red-haired girl at his side and he smiled softly.
“So far, so good,” he murmured.
“We have been lucky,” the girl said. “Let us pray our luck holds.”
“It must hold,” Michael said grimly. Nothing more was said until they reached the blacked-out Unter den Linden and turned off on a deserted side street that led to the Central Intelligence offices.
“Do you know any of the staff at Central?” Michael asked quietly.
“No. Why?”
“It might have helped if you did. The problem of getting in at this hour of the morning might be difficult. But we’ll manage.”
“The office is in charge of Marshal von Umbreit,” the girl said, “but I know nothing of him.”
THE car rolled to a smooth stop a few moments later in front of a modern, white-fronted building. The building was completely dark and sandbags were piled high against the walls.
The driver got out and opened the door.
“Will that be all, sir?” he asked.
Michael noticed that a half dozen guards were on patrol in front of the building and that two of them had halted and were watching the car.
“Yes,” Michael said, “that will be all.”
He stepped out into the dark street and gave his hand to Marie. When she stood beside him on the sidewalk the driver saluted jerkily, got back into the car and drove off.
Michael took the girl’s arm.
“Follow my lead,” he whispered. In a louder voice, he said, “Come, Fraulein, there is not a minute to lose.”
The words carried clearly in the dead silence of the night.
Michael saw the two guards moving slowly toward them, their booted feet sounding ominously on the hard sidewalk, but he pretended to be unaware of their presence.
With his hand on Marie’s arm he strode briskly toward the main entrance of the Central Intelligence building. The booted feet broke into a run and a guttural voice cried, “Halt!”
With his foot on the first step leading up to the building’s main door, Michael paused. He turned as the two guards approached at a lumbering run, rifles held in readiness.
“Ah, there you are,” he said. “Just the men I wanted to see. Where the devil were you hiding yourselves?
Napping on post, I dare say.” He turned to Marie. “Make a note of that, Fraulein. It’s time steps were taken about such carelessness.”
The two guards came to a st
op, their mouths dropping in amazement. The larger of the two, a florid-faced, cold-eyed example of the Prussian type, stuttered speechlessly.
“What is the meaning of this?” he finally managed to bellow. “Who are you? What do you want here at this time of night? Where are your papers?”
“You want a lot of information, don’t you?” Michael murmured. “Has it ever occurred to you that the British, too, want precisely that same type of information? No, of course it hasn’t. My good fellow, we are here to see Marshal von Umbreit. If you can take us to him, please do so. If not, find us someone capable of performing that task. We have no time to waste.”
THE guard’s beefy face reddened.
“Marshal von Umbreit,” he fumed, “will not be here for another five hours. I demand to see your papers.”
Michael studied the man with cold, deliberate eyes.
“Would you be good enough,” he said, “to tell me when you had your last discussion with the marshal about his plans for this morning?”
“I have had no discussion with the marshal,” the guard said, flustered, “but it is his custom—”
“Bah!” Michael said in disgust. “How can we win a war handicapped by clods like you?” He whipped out his wallet and held his identification under the guard’s nose. “I am a special agent from Marshal von Bock. “Tell me, have you heard of Marshal von Bock?”
“But, of course,” the guard mumbled. “I—”
“This is Fraulein Marie Kahn,” Michael snapped, “from the office of Heinrich Himmler. Have you heard of him?”
“Yes—”
“We are here to see Marshal von Umbreit in regard to the assassination of Upper Group Leader Heydrich. Is that name familiar to you, Herr Dumpkoff?”
“Certainly,” the guard cried, his voice breaking slightly. “I—”
“You’re progressing,” Michael said gently. “Now,” he said, his voice hardening, “will you take us to Marshal von Umbreit’s office, or shall I call Himmler?”
“This is against my instructions,” the guard moaned. “If anything happens—”
Collected Fiction (1940-1963) Page 145
