Heroes

by David Hagberg

  “If they get the snow cleared off in time, we’ll be in Tucumcari by tomorrow evening. You can be on a bus for Mexico first thing Monday morning,” Schey said.

  “Suits me,” she snapped. “Now turn out the light.”

  She didn’t want to go, and he didn’t want to let her go. He turned out the light, and she was soon asleep.

  That had been an hour ago. Schey was now in the darkness, smoking a cigarette, sipping a small bourbon, as he stared out the window, down at the sleeping town and at his car.

  The wind was really blowing now, whipping the snow around.

  Two snowplows kept going back and forth up the main street, out to the city limit where they would turn around and come back.

  The cop was no longer parked there.

  As they had each evening, Schey’s thoughts drifted back to Catherine and the baby. So far he had been able to resist the nearly overwhelming urge to telephone the doctor and find out about his son by keeping himself busy, by pushing toward Santa Fe, although getting any information out of Los Alamos would be difficult, if not impossible. He had set his mind to the task, all but blocking out thoughts about his child, except at times like this. But to call back there would be suicide for him.

  He sipped his drink.

  Catherine and Eva were two totally different women. Where Catherine had been meek, Eva was brash. Where Catherine had been dull and on the frumpy side, Eva was definitely a big-city girl, smooth and good-looking. Where Katy was soft, Eva was hard … or was she?

  A snowplow came by again, and a minute later the police cruiser went slowly past and stopped in front of the Hudson.

  Schey put his drink down. The cop definitely suspected something. He stubbed out his cigarette, grabbed his coat where it was tossed over a chair, and went back to the window.

  The cop had gotten out of his car. He went back to the Hudson and looked in one of the windows. He opened the door.

  There was no one with him. He was alone. And except for the snowplows, there was no one out on the streets.

  “Hmm?” Eva said, opening her eyes. She sat up. “What’s happening?”

  “Nothing. Go back to sleep.”

  “Where are you going?” she said in sudden alarm. She reached for the light.

  “No! Don’t turn on the light. It’s the cop; he’s looking at our car.”

  Eva jumped out of the bed and came to the window. The cop was in the back seat of the Hudson now. She swore softly.

  “What’s he looking for?”

  “I don’t know. But I have to find out.”

  “And then what?” she asked, looking up into his eyes.

  “I don’t know,” Schey said grimly.

  “Don’t go. Please, just stay. He’s not going to find anything.”

  “He’s suspicious. We can’t just go to sleep and wait until morning. He could have the FBI up here. It means our lives.”

  “In this weather?”

  “They’d get here sooner or later,” Schey said. He pulled away from her. He hesitated at the door. “Get dressed. We might have to leave in a hurry.”

  She came to him. “I’m frightened, Dieter …”

  “Robert,” he said automatically. “And so am I.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’ll be back,” Schey said, and he slipped out the door, silently went downstairs, and let himself out the front door, the house dark and still.

  The wind was blowing very hard. It seemed like another planet outside. Schey reached inside his coat pocket, his fingers curling around the grip of the .38, and he crossed the street.

  The cop saw him coming and got out of the car. He was half a head taller than Schey and fifty pounds heavier. He put his hand on the butt of his gun at his side. He looked frightened.

  “I saw you down here going through my car. Can I help you with something?” Schey asked. He was going to have to get the cop off the street as fast as possible. Every moment they stood here out in the open increased the risk that someone would spot them.

  “Where’s your missus?”

  “Asleep. Say, can we get in the car and talk. It’s damned cold out here.”

  “In my car,” the cop said. They went up the street and climbed in the cruiser. It was warm.

  “Now, what’s this all about, officer?” Schey asked.

  “I want to see some identification.”

  “What for?” Schey asked. If he could not get past a small town cop, how in the hell would he be able to operate in Santa Fe which would be crawling with FBI?

  “Because I asked for it, son,” the cop drawled, a dangerous edge to his voice.

  Schey slipped out the pistol, cocked the hammer, and pointed it at the cop, whose eyes went wide. The man started for his own gun.

  “I will kill you the instant your hand touches your weapon,” Schey said softly.

  The cop stiffened.

  “Now. Turn around there. I want you to drive out to the edge of town where you stopped me this afternoon.”

  “What have you got in mind?”

  “Just do as I say.”

  The cop put the car in gear and headed down the street. His Adam’s apple was going up and down.

  “Why’d you search my car?” Schey asked. “What were you looking for?”

  At first the man said nothing. Schey raised the pistol to the man’s temple.

  “I’ll blow your brains all over this car.”

  “It’s a stolen car. I got the report on my desk. There was supposed to be radios and things like that …”

  “What?” Schey asked incredulously.

  “It was stolen last week in San Antonio. A Hudson with New Jersey plates. Or Connecticut or someplace out east like that. It belonged to a salesman. RCA Victor.”

  Schey could not believe his ears. It was all a mistake! The cop had made a mistake! He could have checked and found that out in the morning. There would have been no trouble. After the storm cleared up and the highways were plowed, he and Eva could have continued.

  But now it was too late.

  They had come to the city limits, and the cop slowed down.

  ” No,” Schey snapped angrily. “Keep driving.”

  “We’ll get stuck …” (

  Schey prodded him with the gun barrel, and the car lurched forward. Almost immediately they bogged down in a snowdrift. ‘ It took them several minutes of rocking the car back and forth before they got free.

  Another couple of hundred yards and the road was impossibly blocked by a long, sweeping drift. The cop pulled up.

  “We can’t go any farther. You can see that, can’t you?”

  “You’re right,” Schey said. “Out of the car.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Out of the car,” Schey snapped. He hated this, but there was nothing else he could do. His back was against the wall. He could not simply turn and walk away. Not now.

  The cop opened the door and got out. Schey slid across behind him and got out, slipping the pistol in his pocket.

  “Here …” the cop said, reaching for his gun when Schey hit him in the face, knocking him back, blood flying from his nose.

  Schey came at him again, driving one hammer blow after the other to the cop’s mouth and nose, driving him down to his knees, and finally leaving him unconscious on his back in the snow.

  A particularly violent gust of wind rocked Schey on his feet as he turned away and threw up in the snow. The cop had been doing his job, nothing more. But he had screwed up. He had come looking for a stolen car by mistake.

  The man was out, and would be for several minutes at least.

  Schey thought about the coastal watcher up in Maine and that led him to think about Catherine again.

  There were times when he was certain he could not continue, or that he even should continue.

  He switched off the cruiser’s ignition, unlocked the trunk, and pulled out the spare tire and jack, which he brought around to the front.

  Get
ting down on his knees by the front left wheel, he unscrewed the cap on the air stem, and using his thumbnail, his fingers nearly freezing, he let out most of the air from the tire.

  Then he replaced the cap.

  He set up the jack, pried off the hubcap, and loosened the lug nuts. Then he jacked up the car. The cruiser was very unstable in the wind and on the slippery road, and as Schey worked, he kept thinking about the people who would find the cop in the morning.

  He pulled the wheel off and laid it aside, then took a deep breath and went back to where the cop was lying, still unconscious.

  Schey’s stomach was heaving again.

  This was war, he told himself. There was nothing he could do differently. It was for the Reich. For the Fiihrer.

  He dragged the cop back to the car and positioned him so that his battered face was directly beneath the jacked-up wheel. Then he stood back, his throat constricting, sweat running down his chest beneath his coat despite the cold.

  The cop’s eyes were fluttering as Schey slipped around to the front of the car and kicked the base of the jack outwards.

  The car fell, the wheel instantly crushing the cop’s head.

  It was a long walk back to the rooming house in the cold blowing snow, but Schey was surprised when he looked up and realized he was there.

  He made his way up to their room without waking anyone.

  Eva was waiting for him, her hands clasped together, her eyes wide. She had been crying.

  “It’s all right now,” he said. He pulled off his coat, then poured himself a stiff drink which he tossed back.

  “You left with the policeman. I thought you were arrested. I thought we were both … dead.”

  “It’s all right now,” Schey said again, realizing he was sounding stupid, but not able to help it.

  Eva came into his arms, tears pouring from her eyes as she kissed him. “I’m not going to leave. I’ll stay with you. Oh, God …”

  “It’s all right now, Katy,” Schey said, the sound of the cop’s head being crushed by the wheel of the car reverberating over an dover in his ears.

  The countryside along the French-Swiss border above Lake Geneva was very hilly. There were a lot of dairy farms in the region. The neat checkerboard squares of the fields followed the irregular contours of the landscape. The full moon, very nearly overhead, illuminated the land almost like day.

  Canaris sat in the rear tandem seat of the Fiesler Storch light spotter plane they had commandeered from the Luftwaffe depot at Lyon. Captain Hewel was flying.

  It was nearly one in the morning when Hewel pointed down to the east, along a fold in the hills. “It is there, Herr Admiral,” he shouted.

  Canaris spotted the airstrip almost immediately. He had seen photographs of the place, and it was easily recognizable. A small trout stream bordered the field to the west, while along the south end were two falling-down hangars and a small stone house.

  There were no planes in sight, either on the grass runway or in the open-front hangars. Nor were there any cars or trucks, or any other sign of habitation.

  The town of Portalier was a few miles farther to the north.

  Nothing seemed to be moving in the town either, although Canaris was able to pick out a few lights.

  Hewel came around the strip twice, judging the wind as he brought the light plane lower, finally paralleling the runway on his downwind leg.

  When he was opposite the end of the runway, he cut back on the throttle, and gradually they dropped as he turned gently onto a base leg and then entered his final approach, the runway lining up perfectly.

  They touched down smoothly and within a minute or so had taxied back to the far end of the runway, where Hewel powered the plane off to the side, then turned it so they could see the landing approach.

  Hewel cut the engine, and for the first few seconds the silence was deafening.

  “There is no one here, Herr Admiral.”

  “We will wait until just before dawn. Then we will return to Lyon. I must be back in Berlin by noon.”

  They were silent for a bit.

  “May I get out, sir? I’d like to stretch my legs.”

  “By all means,” Canaris said. “But during the meeting I want you to come back here and stand by to take off at a moment’s notice.”

  Hewel had opened the door flaps. He looked back. “Will there be … some danger, sir? Shall I have my gun ready?”

  “I don’t think so. But it wouldn’t hurt to unbutton your holster flap and make sure your Luger is loaded.”

  Hewel nodded, then stepped down out of the plane. Canaris unstrapped his seat belt, shoved the seat back ahead of him forward, and Hewel helped him climb out.

  The plane was black with a lot of windows and struts and with very tall, spindly landing gear. Standing away from it, the machine looked like some sort of gigantic prehistoric insect. The swastika was painted on the tail.

  Hewel walked away from the plane and stood looking down the runway. Canaris joined him and lit a cigarette.

  “It is very well maintained,” Hewel said. “Is there a caretaker?”

  “From what I understand, no. He is no longer here. Someone from the town comes out on a regular basis.”

  “Strange …” Hewel started, but they both heard the sound of a light plane overhead at the same time.

  Hewel spotted it first on its downwind leg. He pointed.

  “I see it,” Canaris said, stubbing out his cigarette. “Stick close to the plane,” he added. He went back to it and pulled out the cardboard envelope that contained the photographs Schey had sent over from the United States.

  Hewel had taken out his Luger and he checked to make sure it was loaded. His face seemed pale in the moonlight.

  “This is a very delicate operation, Erich. I don’t want anything to go wrong.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  “It is of utmost importance to the Reich that I convince these people what I’m giving them is real. Do you understand that?”

  Hewel shook his head, “No, sir, I don’t think I do. But it doesn’t matter; I’m just the pilot, and I can do that for you.”

  “Very good,” Canaris said, patting the man on the arm. The other plane was on final and was dropping for a landing.

  Hewel’s eyes widened slightly. It was a Piper Cub with Red Cross markings. But he didn’t say a thing. Nor would he, Canaris knew.

  “Steady now,” Canaris said. “Keep your eyes open. If anyone else shows up, we must leave here immediately.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The plane touched down just in front of them, then breezed past, the wind ruffling their hair.

  Canaris stepped out into the middle of the runway and headed after it, getting about ten yards when the Piper Cub stopped and turned.

  For a moment the plane just sat there, its prop turning over.

  But then its engine died and the door flaps came open.

  Two men got out of the plane; one of them headed up the runway. Canaris started walking again. The night was very still.

  There were no insects, no sounds at all from the countryside.

  Canaris felt very much alone.

  Alien Welsh Dulles, chief of OSS activities for Europe, was in his early fifties. He was somewhat taller than Canaris, with gray hair and glasses. He stopped a few feet away and looked beyond Canaris to where Hewel stood by the Fiesler. Then he came closer and stuck out his hand.

  “It is a unique experience meeting you like this, Admiral Canaris,” Dulles said. His voice was soft.

  Canaris shook his hand. “But not a pleasure?” he asked, his English a little rusty.

  “A rare pleasure, sir.”

  Canaris nodded. The other man seemed much younger, much more vital and energetic than he would have suspected. There had been a spring in his step. There were even laugh lines around his eyes. Of course, they were winning; Dulles had every right to be happy.

  “I trust you kept knowledge of this meeting to a minimum?”
/>   “There are others who know. But the list is not large. And they all are to be trusted implicitly.”

  Canaris bit off the obvious rejoinder. Instead, he said, “You telephoned Washington? There was time.”

  Dulles just stared at him, a flinty look coming into his eyes.

  “What if I came here to discuss terms of ending the war?”

  “No. You are not here for that.”

  “If I were?” Canaris insisted. He didn’t know why he was doing this, playing this game.

  “We would refuse. Unconditional surrender and the total dismantlement of your military forces is the minimum we will accept.”

  Canaris sighed. The butterflies were back in his stomach. The night was warm. “Your government is in the process of constructing a new weapon, Mr. Dulles.”

  Dulles shrugged. “We, like you, are constructing many new things.”

  “This will be a new type of bomb. One in which atoms will be smashed.”

  Dulles held his silence. :

  “The work name for this bomb is the Manhattan District Project. It is the Army Corps of Engineers, I believe, who are making it.”

  “I have not heard of such a project.”

  “I have,” Canaris said; he slapped the cardboard envelope against his leg. Dulles’ eyes were drawn to it. “In a place near Knoxville, Tennessee, there are gigantic factories for the distillation of a pure isotope of uranium. Near Hanford, Washington, at another large plant, work is being done to extract a material called plutonium. And somewhere near Santa Fe, New Mexico, in the mountains at a place called Los Alamos, there is a laboratory at which many of your chief scientists are at work.”

  Dulles was thunderstruck. He could not hide it. Still, he said nothing.

  “Shall I continue?” Canaris asked.

  “All that is there, in the package?”

  Canaris nodded. “At your Tennessee operation, your engineers are trying several methods to separate the uranium isotope.

  The gas diffusion method, at a plant which you call K-25, seems to be the only one that will work.”

  “My God,” Dulles said, his shoulders falling. “Oh, my God … you …”

  Canaris held out the cardboard envelope. For a moment Dulles made no move to accept it. “No one else in the Reich has this information. Just me.” Dulles took the envelope. “Why?” he asked.