Through the rearview mirror he watched as the gate reversed course and closed behind the truck. The sight felt final and irrevocable.
***
The wait had seemed interminable to Tracie. She could hear the guard moving boxes and shuffling around as he performed his inspection, and she concentrated on remaining perfectly still and controlling her breathing.
By the time he climbed down from the cargo box, her muscles were sore and beginning to cramp. After the doors slammed closed, she flexed them, careful not to knock over any boxes or make any undue noise, but determined to maintain flexibility. The still-healing gunshot wound in her leg throbbed and she gritted her teeth against the pain.
The truck was moving slowly, and in her mind, Tracie tracked its progress. Deliveries were accomplished at a big wood-framed building set up as a warehouse, complete with raised loading dock. The structure was positioned behind the residential buildings but in front of the barracks, and even driving as slowly as Gruber was, they should be just about there by now.
As if confirming her suspicions, the truck turned and slowed, then came to a complete stop. After a moment, it began backing, still in a turn, and a few seconds later came to a jarring stop that threw Tracie off her feet and against the boxes. She knew immediately what had happened—Gruber misjudged the distance to the loading dock and slammed the rear of the truck into it.
She picked herself up and waited as the sound of a garage door rising on its tracks drifted through the thin steel walls of the cargo box. A moment later the rear doors opened and Gruber stepped into the rear of the truck. He hefted a box and stepped back out of the truck, carrying it to the warehouse as instructed.
A moment later he returned and repeated the process.
Tracie felt her breathing quicken and her muscles tense.
It was time to go to work.
20
November 18, 1987
3:10 p.m.
Phoenix Compound
Langenberg, Federal Republic of Germany
Gruber felt a light sweat beginning to form under his clothing, even though the day was cool and overcast.
The boxes were heavy.
Most of them were marked, but he had doubted the legitimacy of the markings from the beginning. Now, after hefting and carrying just the first few, he became convinced that rather than unloading a shipment of food and dry goods, it was much more likely these crates contained weapons and ammunition.
He moved deliberately, not wanting to finish too quickly but determined not to invite any unnecessary attention, either. He wanted nothing more than to signal Quinn to exit the truck, but didn’t dare.
Not yet.
Their surveillance had revealed that each of the previous two days, the truck had been unloaded under armed guard, a grim-faced young man wearing an unmarked wool overcoat with no insignia, carrying what appeared to be an automatic or semiauto rifle slung over his shoulder.
Gruber had remarked to Quinn that it was surprising the guard wasn’t outfitted in Nazi regalia. “For that matter,” he had said, “I would have expected all the people working inside the compound to be in uniform.”
Quinn had shaken her head, and her response had made perfect sense. “This place is supposed to be a hazardous waste facility, remember? As such, they’re probably subject to government oversight. I’m sure they wouldn’t want to take the chance of a surprise inspection uncovering dozens of Nazis. Even if the local authorities are paid off like I think they must be, Phoenix wouldn’t be comfortable enough—yet—to advertise their mission so openly.”
Gruber continued to work. Delivery truck to warehouse, back to delivery truck to begin again. After the fourth trip, when the guard still hadn’t put in an appearance, Gruber’s nervousness began to intensify. The ability to work without someone holding a gun on him should have made him breathe easier, but the opposite was true. Had they been found out? Was there a squad of men even now moving unseen across the compound to take Gruber—and eventually Quinn—into custody?
And what would happen then?
He considered whispering to Quinn, getting her opinion on the subject. The utter, deathly quiet inside the compound was beginning to give him the willies, and his fellow operative’s silence wasn’t helping. It was moments like this that made him question his career choice.
One more trip, he thought to himself. I’m going to carry one more box into that damned warehouse and then I’ll get Quinn’s opinion on what the hell is going on here.
He lifted another crate—this one was even heavier than the ones that had come before it—and turned and nearly ran right into the guard. He couldn’t tell if this was the same grim-faced man he and Quinn had watched through binoculars the previous two days, but if not this one was cut from the same cloth. His lips were compressed into a thin line and his eyes were little more than slits, and he offered Gruber a look of barely concealed hostility before stepping aside to allow him to pass.
Gruber muscled the crate into the warehouse and dropped it onto the concrete floor with a grunt. He stood and ran the back of his wrist across his face and smiled. “I was starting to wonder where you were,” he said.
The guard ignored the comment and said, “Where is the regular driver?”
“Like I told the gate guard, he’s sick, so I’m stuck working a double shift.”
“You have never been here before.”
“I told you, the other driver is sick so I’m taking his place for the day.” He tried to keep the exasperation out of his voice. How stupid was this man?
“That is not what I mean. If you have never been here before, how did you know to expect a guard?”
Gruber paused, willing back the panic that tried to take over his brain and shut it down. The silence lengthened as he searched for an appropriate response. “Well, it’s not the sort of thing that we tend to run across every day, so the company warned me what to expect before sending me out here.”
“Your company is being paid very handsomely to keep quiet about these deliveries,” the guard said. “That means no one should be talking about this facility at all, is that understood? Or will a follow-up telephone call to the home office be necessary?”
“No, of course not. That won’t be necessary. My buddy was just trying to keep me from falling over dead with a heart attack when I saw guys with guns, that’s all. And I’m already on thin ice with the boss, I really don’t need a complaint from such a valuable client.”
Matthias Gruber had been blessed with good looks and a ready smile, two traits that he had used since adolescence to ring up a remarkable string of successes with the opposite sex, at least until running headlong into the brick wall put up by Fiona Quinn. Now he prayed he hadn’t gone too far as he flashed what he hoped was a disarming smile at the guard.
With any luck, the man would accept his words at face value.
The guard returned his gaze impassively. Then he turned and moved to the edge of the loading dock and gestured with his rifle at the truck. “Get moving,” he said.
Gruber nodded and ducked back into the cargo box. He began working in earnest, transferring boxes with a speed he had avoided while waiting for the guard to show up. He began sweating more, breathing heavily, pushing himself intentionally.
A few minutes later he estimated he had moved close to half the cargo. He was panting now and before long would be getting close to the tiny space Quinn had burrowed into after they had disabled the real truck driver. He lifted another crate and whispered, “Now.”
He waited for the response and after less than a second, received it. “Check,” was all Quinn said. Then he turned back toward the warehouse. The next few seconds would determine their fate.
He dropped the crate onto a rapidly growing pile of boxes inside the warehouse and then trudged back onto the loading dock. This time, though, instead of climbing into the delivery truck, Gruber crouched down and dropped off the edge of the dock to the dusty ground.
The guard eyed him susp
iciously and said, “What are you doing? I know the truck is not empty yet. Get back to work.” He didn’t make a move for his gun, but he didn’t have to. It wasn’t like Gruber could ignore its presence.
Breathing heavily, he said, “Need water. I’ve got some in the cab.”
“Just finish the job,” the guard said, but before he could react Gruber had brushed past him on the way to the front of the truck.
“I said get back there and finish, or—”
Gruber stumbled on the uneven surface, pitching forward to the ground. The guard rushed up behind him. “Get up,” the man barked, utterly unsympathetic to his plight.
“Okay, okay,” Gruber answered, pushing himself up onto all fours before rising tiredly to his feet. “Can I please just get my water first?”
“Hurry up about it,” the guard said. He fixed Gruber with a glare and then marched back to the edge of the loading dock. “Well? What are you waiting for?”
Gruber nodded and opened the driver’s side door. He reached into the cab for his thermos of water and opened it, drinking greedily. I hope that worked, he thought. Or we’re both in big trouble.
***
The walls of the cargo bed were thin, and Tracie was up and moving the moment she heard Gruber drop to the ground on the other side of the sheet metal. She had listened to the exchanges between her partner and the hard-ass guard, and she knew she would likely have an opening of no more than a couple of seconds.
She moved silently to the rear door, backpack slung over one shoulder like the college student she used to be. She felt as exposed and vulnerable as she ever had, knowing that if another guard happened to appear in the warehouse door right now she wouldn’t even have time to go for her weapon.
“Get up!” the guard barked from next to the truck, and Tracie knew this was the best chance she was going to get. Probably the only chance. His words were muffled slightly by the cargo bed wall and she knew Gruber had been successful in drawing him away from the edge of the loading dock.
She made her move. She stepped lightly off the back of the truck and onto the dock, moving quickly but not so fast she would risk tripping or making any noise, the slightest of which would give her away.
She didn’t look back, didn’t dare check to see if the guard’s attention had drifted away from Gruber yet. If it had, she would find out soon enough.
She crossed the loading dock in less than a second and entered the warehouse through the big garage door. The air felt chilly and damp, and she shivered, mostly—but not entirely—from the temperature. From behind she could hear the frustrated guard prodding Gruber more insistently now about getting back to work.
Then she disappeared deeper into the warehouse and the sounds faded away.
21
November 18, 1987
3:40 p.m.
Phoenix Compound
Langenberg, Federal Republic of Germany
Finding a secure place in which to hole up and observe the cluster of residence buildings near the front of the Phoenix compound was relatively easy. Tracie worked her way through row after row of supplies already packed away inside the warehouse, moving steadily deeper into the building. Two-thirds of the way toward the rear wall, she selected a location next to a window and then quietly moved crates and boxes aside until she had made a small hideaway for herself. It was similar to what she had done back in the delivery truck.
Within ten minutes she had made herself as comfortable as possible while still being able to observe what she needed to outside. The only way she could be discovered, short of a guard weaving through the stacks of supplies and stumbling upon her exact location, would be for someone to see her through the warehouse window as she was monitoring the camp.
Tracie had performed innumerable stakeouts over her years as a field operative and had long ago learned to deal with the somewhat illogical combination of extreme boredom and unrelenting tension. She expected no less out of this mission, and settled in for the long haul: hour after hour of observation, trying to stay sharp when the majority of her time would be spent observing nothing of interest.
The first thing she discovered, after less than an hour with her eyes glued to the compound, was that Phoenix had not yet begun to ramp up their operation. The camp was massive but understaffed. Rather than wannabe Nazis marching around and preparing to take over the world, she saw the occasional patrolling guard walk by, or a bit of similar activity, someone moving from one building to another.
Nothing earthshaking.
So far.
But the everyday pace of deliveries, and the amount of armaments and ammunition already cached inside the warehouse, suggested strongly that at some point, and soon, the situation would change. To Tracie it appeared preparations were being made to stock the camp in advance of a massive influx of recruits who would be arriving subsequent to the Amber Room treasure being liquidated on the black market.
Most of the camp’s activity seemed to be concentrated in the vicinity of a large wood-frame structure adjacent to the dirt-packed driveway near the front gate. After watching a number of soldiers enter and then exit in a trickle of steady activity, Tracie felt confident she had identified the camp’s administration building or headquarters.
All the men she observed entering and exiting the building were dressed exactly like the guard who had supervised Gruber’s offloading of crates: wool overcoat to protect against the November chill, automatic or semiauto rifle slung over one shoulder, pistol holstered at the hip. The lack of Nazi identification, and especially the lack of any insignia indicating rank, convinced Tracie that the compound was at this point still manned only by true believers, those fanatical Nazi followers who would be critical in rebuilding the party from scratch.
Once the process of trucking foot soldiers and other recruits into the facility for training and indoctrination began, that situation would change, as a command structure would have to be identified.
Tracie aimed to ensure this insane Nazi training facility would never reach that point.
She made herself comfortable on a crate she had dragged in front of the window. Thought about a movie she had gone to see early in her CIA career. It was called Raiders of the Lost Ark, and featured a hunky Harrison Ford fighting pre-World War II Nazis.
That movie had been set in the 1930s, with director Stephen Spielberg probably never realizing he could have set the film in 1987. Tracie shook her head. Who would have guessed repelling a Nazi threat would become necessary four decades after the world assumed that particular plague on humanity had been wiped out for good?
Her reverie came to an abrupt halt as a door opened in one of the residence buildings clustered behind Phoenix headquarters. A young woman stepped out, one of the very few females Tracie had observed in two and a half days of surveillance plus the couple of hours she had been holed up inside the warehouse.
The woman was dressed in scrubs. A pale blue blouse over white pants. Perched on her head was a nurse’s cap.
Tracie had seen no evidence of anyone in scrubs until now; certainly no one dressed like that entering or leaving the camp during the sixteen-plus hours per day she and Gruber had observed the facility in preparation for this op. She realized watching the woman walk that the angles from which they had been forced to conduct surveillance would have hidden the nurse from view, however.
This was interesting.
Little training seemed to be taking place inside the facility to this point, thus there was no reason she could conceive of why Phoenix would need medical personnel on-site and available twenty-four hours a day.
Unless it was to provide care for someone who could not care for himself.
Someone elderly.
Someone like a Nazi leader presumed long dead, a man poised to become the rallying point for a new generation of fanatical followers bent on restoring the Thousand Year Reich to its decades-interrupted former “glory.”
Tracie tracked the nurse’s progress as the young woman skirted the bu
ilding she had just exited, rubber-soled shoes crunching along a gravel walkway. She walked to a pair of buildings located roughly midpoint in the cluster of structures but somehow different from the rest. They looked better maintained, nicer. Homier. They were smaller, not much larger than a pair of summer cottages, but each sported a fresh coat of immaculate white paint, with royal blue shutters flanking the windows and a farmer’s porch spanning the entire width of the front.
Upon reaching the cottages, the nurse turned and climbed the steps leading to the front door of the building on the right. A wicker rocking chair sat unused on the porch, red wool blanket draped over its back. A black-crested design set against a circular white background adorned the blanket, and although the design was not fully visible given the fact the blanket was half-folded, Tracie thought she had a pretty good idea what it was anyway.
A gammadion cross.
More commonly known as a swastika.
The nurse crossed the porch and knocked politely at the door. A moment later it swung open to reveal a guard. The wool overcoat Tracie had seen all the other guards wear was absent, which made sense since the man was indoors. Otherwise he was a near-identical match to all the rest, right down to the rifle slung over his shoulder.
In the back of her mind she wondered why on earth a man standing watch inside a building that small would carry an automatic rifle. Perhaps he had only picked it up at the sound of the knock, but in any event, it was potentially critical intel, and Tracie filed it away as she watched the nurse enter the building.
The stone-faced guard stood aside until she passed, then scanned the area outside the little house from left to right before easing the door closed.
This was getting more and more fascinating. Tracie reached into her pocket and removed a stick of gum. She unwrapped the gum and popped it into her mouth before smoothing the foil wrapper and placing it neatly on the concrete floor at her feet. She leaned back, never taking her eyes off the portion of the Phoenix compound she could see, and considered the implications of what she had thus far observed.
Tracie Tanner Thrillers Box Set Page 85
