Zeros Four and Seven, near-hysterical escapees from the rue Diane, burst into the Blitzkrieger headquarters at the Avignon warehouse complex, trying to impose some control over their emotions—none too successfully. Their two remaining comrades were in the conference room—one at the table, the other pouring coffee.
“We’re finished!” cried the impulsive Paris Zero Four, breathlessly throwing himself into a chair. “All hell broke loose!”
“What happened?” The Blitzkrieger pouring coffee dropped the cup.
“It wasn’t our fault.” Paris Seven, standing, held his place, and spoke in a loud, defensive voice. “It was a trap, and Five and Two panicked. They ran inside the flat on rapid fire—”
“Then there were different shots and we heard them fall,” Zero Four broke in, his eyes unfocused. “They’re probably dead.”
“What about the others, the two who scaled down the building to the window?”
“We don’t know; there was no way we could know!”
“What do we do now?” asked Seven. “Any word from Zero One?”
“Nothing.”
“One of us must assume his position and reach Bonn,” said the elite killer by the coffee.
To a man, the other three shook their heads emphatically. “We’ll be executed,” said Four quietly, matter-of-factly. “The leaders will demand it, and speaking personally, I will not die for others’ mistakes, others’ panic. Were I responsible, I would gladly take the cyanide, but I am not, we are not!”
“But what can we do?” repeated Seven.
The erect Four walked pensively around the table, pausing in front of the Blitzkrieger by the coffee machine. “You handle our accounts, not so?”
“Yes, I do.”
“How much money do we have?”
“Several million francs.”
“Can you get more quickly?”
“Our requests for funds are not questioned. We place a phone call and they are wired. We justify them later, naturally understanding the consequences if they are for false pretenses.”
“The same consequences we face now, am I right?”
“Essentially, yes. Death.”
“Make your call and ask for the maximum you can get. You might drop a hint that we may have the President of France or the head of the Chamber of Deputies in our pockets.”
“That would call for the maximum. The transfer will be immediate, but the funds would not be available to us until the Algerian bank opens.… It’s past four now; the bank opens at nine o’clock.”
“Less than five hours,” said Zero Seven, staring at Four. “What are you thinking of?”
“The obvious. We stay here, we all face execution.… What I’m about to say to you may turn your stomachs, but I submit that we can better serve our cause alive than dead. Especially when our deaths are the result of others’ incompetence; we still have much to offer.… I have an elderly uncle outside of Buenos Aires, seventy miles south of the Rio de la Plata. He was one of many who fled the Third Reich when it was being destroyed, but the family still holds that Deutschland to be holy. We have passports; we can fly there and the family will give us sanctuary.”
“It’s better than execution,” said Seven.
“Unwarranted execution,” added the Blitzkrieger at the table solemnly.
“But can we be unreachable for five hours?” asked the killer/accounts manager.
“We can if we tear out the phones and leave,” replied Four. “We’ll pack whatever we need, burn what has to be destroyed, and get out of here. A long day and night lie before us. Hurry! Crumple the files and any other papers there are, stuff them into the metal wastebaskets and light them.”
“I’m rather looking forward to it,” said a relieved Zero Seven.
The ultimate believers had found a convenient crack in their sacred covenant, and as the first wastebasket was set on fire, the bookkeeper opened a window to let out the smoke.
Knox Talbot, director of the CIA, opened the front door for Wesley Sorenson. It was early evening, the Virginia sun descending over the fields of Talbot’s property. “Welcome to these humble lodgings, Wes.”
“Humble, like hell,” said the head of Consular Operations, walking inside. “Do you own half of the state?”
“Only an itty-bitty part. The rest I leave for the white folk.”
“Really, it’s very beautiful, Knox.”
“I won’t argue,” agreed Talbot, leading them through an extravagantly appointed living room to a huge glass-enclosed sun porch. “If you like, and if you have time, I’ll show you the barn and the stables. I have three daughters who fell in love with horses until they discovered boys.”
“I’ll be damned,” exclaimed Sorenson, sitting down. “I have two daughters who did the same.”
“Did they leave you when they found husbands?”
“Well, they come back now and then.”
“But they left you with the horses.”
“Yea so, my friend. Fortunately, my wife adores them.”
“Mine doesn’t. As she frequently points out, growing up on 145th Street in Harlem didn’t exactly prepare her for an estate with stables. She allows me to keep them ’cause they draw the kids back, sometimes too often.… Can I get you a drink?”
“No thanks. My cardiologist allows me three ounces a day, and I’ve already had four. Then I’ll get home, and it’ll be a total of six with my wife.”
“Then to business.” Talbot reached down to a wicker magazine rack and pulled up a black-bordered file folder. “First, the AA computers,” he said. “There was nothing, absolutely nothing, I could go on. I’m not questioning Harry Latham and his source, but if they’re right, it’s so buried, it would take an archeologist to pull him or her out.”
“They’re right, Knox.”
“I don’t doubt it, so while I continue to dig, I’ve replaced the whole unit as a matter of a new rotation policy. Expanding the venues of upper-level personnel is the way I explained it.”
“How did that go down?”
“Not well, but with no discernible objections, which, of course, I was looking for. Naturally, the former team is under a microscope.”
“Naturally,” said Sorenson. “What about this Kroeger, Gerhardt Kroeger?”
“Far more interesting.” Talbot flipped several pages in the file folder. “To begin with, he was apparently some kind of genius in the brain surgery field, not only in removing delicate tumors, but in eliminating ‘subcutaneous pressures’ that made mentally sick people well again.”
“Was?” asked Wesley Sorenson. “What do you mean, was?”
“He disappeared. He resigned his post as associate chief of cranial surgery at the Hospital of Nuremberg at the age of forty-three, claiming he was burnt out, psychologically unfit to continue operating. He married a prominent surgical nurse named Greta Frisch, and the last anyone heard—the last trace, in fact—was that they immigrated to Sweden.”
“What do the Swedish authorities say?”
“That’s what’s interesting. They have him entering Sweden, at Göteborg, four years ago, ostensibly on a pleasure trip. The hotel records show that he and his wife spent two days and departed. The trail ends there.”
“He’s back,” said the director of Consular Operations. “In reality, I suppose, he never went away. He found another cause beyond making sick people well.”
“What in hell could that be, Wes?”
“I don’t know. Maybe making well people sick. I just don’t know.”
Drew Latham opened his eyes, annoyed by the sounds from the street, louder because of the smashed window in the bedroom. Witkowski, along with marine guards, had taken the captured Nazis to the airport under cover, and someone had had to stay in the colonel’s room. An open window was too inviting. Slowly, Drew slid over to the other side of the bed and got to his feet, cautiously avoiding fragments of glass. He grabbed his trousers and shirt from a chair, put them on, and walked to the door. He opened it and saw W
itkowski and De Vries across the living room at a table in the alcove, having coffee.
“How long have you been up?” he asked of both, not really caring.
“We let you sleep, my dear.”
“There’s that ‘my dear’ again. I sincerely believe you do not mean an endearment.”
“It’s an expression, Drew,” said Karin. “You were quite wonderful last night—this morning.”
“Naturally, the colonel was better.”
“Naturally, youngster, but you held your own, by damn. You’re a cool customer in the face of the enemy.”
“Would you believe, Mr. Super Guy, that I’ve done it before? Not that I take any pride in it; it’s merely a matter of survival.”
“Come,” said De Vries, rising. “I’ll get you some coffee. Here, sit down,” she continued, heading for the kitchen. “Take the third chair.”
“I’ll bet she wouldn’t give it to me if it was hers,” said Latham, stumbling across the room. “So, what happened, Stosh?” he asked, sitting down.
“Everything we wanted, young man. At five o’clock this morning I got our scumbuckets on a jet to D.C. and nobody will know but Sorenson.”
“What do you mean, will? Didn’t you speak to Wes?”
“I spoke to his wife. I met her once and nobody could duplicate that half-American, half-British speech. I told her to tell the director that a package was due at Andrews at four-ten in the morning, their time, under the code name Peter Pan Two. She said she’d tell him the moment he got in.”
“That’s too loose, Stanley. You should have requested a return confirmation.”
The apartment telephone rang. The colonel got up and walked rapidly across the room; he picked it up. “Yes?” He listened for six seconds and then hung up. “That was Sorenson,” he said. “They’ve got a platoon of marines on the ground and on the roofs. Anything else, Mr. Intelligence Man?”
“Yes,” replied Latham. “Do we call off the bootmaker and the amusement park?”
“I shouldn’t think so,” answered Karin, bringing Drew his coffee and sitting down. “Two neos are dead and two on their way to America. Others have fled, an additional two, by my count.”
“Six altogether,” agreed Drew. “Hardly a platoon,” he added, looking at Witkowski.
“Not even half a squad. How many others are there?”
“Let’s try and find out. I’ll take the amusement park—”
“Drew,” cried De Vries, sharply interrupting.
“You’ll take nothing,” added the colonel. “You haven’t much of a short-term memory, youngster. They want you—or I should say Harry—on a slab with rigor mortis, remember?”
“What am I supposed to do, open a trapdoor and hide in the sewers?”
“No, you’ll stay right here. I’ll send two marines to guard the stairs and a maintenance man to repair the window.”
“Would you mind, I’d like to be useful?”
“You will be. This will be our temporary base camp and you’ll be the contact.”
“With whom?”
“With whoever I tell you to reach. I’ll be calling you at least once an hour.”
“What about me?” asked Karin apprehensively. “I can be of value at the embassy.”
“I realize that, specifically in my office with a guard at the door. Sorenson knows who you are and no doubt Knox Talbot as well. If either reaches me on my secure phone, you take the messages, call them to our amnesiac here, and I’ll get them from him. Now, if I can only figure out a way to get you there in case there are hostiles in the street.”
“Perhaps I can help you help us both.” De Vries reached down for her purse beside the chair, stood up, and started for the bedroom. “This will only take a moment or two, but it does require a little prodding and primping.”
“What’s she doing?” said Witkowski as Karin went through the door.
“I think I know, but I’ll let her surprise you. Maybe then you’ll promote her as your assistant.”
“I could do worse. Freddie taught her a lot of tricks.”
“Which you taught him.”
“Only the fire escape; the rest he figured out for himself and he was usually way ahead of us … all of us, except probably Harry.”
“What happens when she leaves the embassy, Stanley?”
“She won’t. There are a lot of staff rooms. I’ll throw someone out for a few days and she’ll stay there.”
“With a guard, of course.”
The colonel looked over at Latham, his eyes steady. “You care, don’t you?”
“I care,” replied Drew simply.
“Normally, I wouldn’t approve, but in this case I’ll reduce my objections.”
“I didn’t say it’ll lead anywhere.”
“No, but if it does, you’ve got a couple of miles on me. She’s in the same business.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You don’t get grandchildren because some quarter-master issued them. I was married for thirteen years to a fine woman, a splendid woman who finally admitted she couldn’t accept what I did for a living, and all the complications it involved. For once in my life I pleaded, but to no avail—she saw through those pleas. I was too used to what I did, too primed for it every day. She was very generous though—I had unlimited visitation rights with the children. But, of course, I wasn’t around that much to visit them very often.”
“I’m sorry, Stanley. I had no idea.”
“It’s not the sort of thing you put in Stars and Stripes, now, is it?”
“I guess not, but you obviously get along with your kids. I mean, visiting grandchildren, and all.”
“Hell, yes, they consider me a hoot. Their mother remarried very well, and what in Sam Hill am I going to do with the money I make? I’ve got more perks than I can handle, so when they all come to Paris, well, you can figure it out.”
They were interrupted by the figure in the bedroom doorway, a very blond woman in dark glasses, her skirt hiked up above her knees, her blouse unbuttoned to mid-chest. She shifted her weight from leg to leg in mock sensuality. “What’ll the boys in the back room have?” she said, her voice low, imitating the well-worn motion picture cliché.
“Outstanding!” exclaimed the stunned Witkowski.
“And then some.” Drew spoke softly, adding a quiet whistle.
“Will this do, Colonel?”
“It surely will, except I’ll have to screen the guards, hopefully find a few gay ones.”
“Worry not, Wizard,” said Latham. “Beneath the heat is a will of ice.”
“Obviously, I can’t fool you, monsieur.” Karin laughed, released her skirt, buttoned her blouse, and started toward the table, when the telephone rang. “Shall I get it?” she asked. “I can say I’m the maid—in the proper French, naturally.”
“I’d be obliged,” answered Witkowski. “Today’s the laundry morning; he usually calls around now. Tell him to come up, and press Six on the phone to open the foyer door.”
“Allô? C’est la résidence du grand colonel.” De Vries listened for a moment or two, placed her hand over the phone, and looked over at the embassy’s chief of security. “It’s Ambassador Courtland. He says he must speak to you immediately.”
Witkowski rose quickly and crossed the room, taking the phone from Karin. “Good morning, Mr. Ambassador.”
“You listen to me, Colonel! I don’t know what happened at your place last night or at the Orly Airport annex field—and I’m not sure I want to know—but if you have any plans for this morning, scratch them, and that’s an order!”
“You heard from the police, then, sir?”
“More than I care to. And more to the point, I heard from the German ambassador, who’s fully cooperating with us. Kreitz was alerted several hours ago by the German section of the Quai d’Orsay that there was a fire in a suite of offices at the Avignon Warehouses. Among the debris were remnants of Third Reich memorabilia, along with thousands of charred pages, burned beyon
d recognition, set on fire in wastebaskets.”
“The papers set the whole place on fire?”
“Apparently a window was left open and the breezes spread the flames, setting off the smoke alarms and the sprinklers. Get over there!”
“Where are the warehouses, sir?”
“How the hell do I know? You speak French, ask somebody!”
“I’ll check the telephone book. And, Mr. Ambassador, I’d prefer not to take my own car, or a taxi. Would you please call—have your secretary call—Transport, and send secure equipment to my apartment on the rue Diane. They know the address.”
“ ‘Secure equipment’? What the dickens is that?”
“An armored vehicle, sir, with a marine escort.”
“Christ, I wish I were in Sweden! Find out what you can, Colonel. And hurry!”
“Tell Transport to hurry, sir.” Witkowski hung up, not, however, before giving the telephone the proverbial “finger.” He turned to Latham and Karin de Vries. “Everything’s changed, at least for the time being. With any luck we may have found a jackpot. Karin, you stay the way you are. You, youngster, you go to my closet and see if you can find a uniform that fits. We’re about the same size, one of ’em will come close.”
“Where are we going?” asked Drew.
“To a group of offices in a warehouse that got torched by neos. A Nazi wastebasket brigade didn’t quite work out the way it was intended. Some asshole opened a window.”
The neo-Nazi headquarters were in shambles, the walls scorched, the few curtains burned up to their rods, and the whole mess drenched by the sprinkler system. In an office filled with computerized electronic equipment, undoubtedly used by the leader of the unit, was a huge locked steel cabinet. Smashed open, it revealed an arsenal of weapons, from high-powered rifles, telescopic sights attached, to boxes of hand grenades, miniaturized flamethrowers, garrotes, assorted handguns, and various stilettos—some automated from canes and umbrellas. Everything coincided with Drew Latham’s description of elite Nazi killers in Paris. This was their lair.
“Use pincers,” ordered Colonel Witkowski, speaking French and addressing the police while pointing to charred sheets of paper on the floor. “Get plates of glass and place anything that isn’t totally destroyed between them. You never know what we can pick up.”
The Apocalypse Watch Page 28
