The Children's War (166 page)

37

T
HANK
GOD!
Richard thought as the phone rang. Karl stopped midsentence and looked at the device on Richard’s desk as if it had betrayed him.

“Haven’t you stopped your calls?” Karl fumed as it rang a second time.

“No, I’m expecting someone important.” Richard winked and nodded his head upward in the long-accepted gesture meaning “from the Führer’s office.”

“We’ll have to continue this strategy discussion later.”

Karl scowled, apparently upset at being out of the loop, yet again.

Richard waved Karl out of his office and picked up the receiver. His secretary announced a long-distance call and completed the connection upon Richard’s approval. A woman’s voice that Richard recognized as one of the Warszawa HQ staff said softly,“Nephew! It’s your aunt Sybille—do you recognize me?”

“Ah, yes, of course. What’s the occasion?”

“Oh, it’s your uncle, dear boy. He’s traveling through Berlin, making a connection at the station there near you, and I’m afraid he left without his wallet. He has his tickets and papers, but no money. Would you be a dear and go to the station and see if you can find him and loan him some cash?”

“But of course.” Richard wondered what was so important that it required this charade. “Give me the details so I can locate him.”

An hour later he was at the station and the courier had spotted him. The man hugged him in greeting and Ryszard felt something drop into his pocket.

“What’s up?” he asked as he plucked off a few hundred marks and handed them to the courier.

“You have a photograph and some names in your pocket. The names are coded, entry-level twenty-four.”

Ryszard nodded. It was a straightforward substitution using the telephone directory available to officials. “And?”

“The photograph is of a prisoner currently in your Ministry. An American, traveling under the name of Wim van Wije.”

“Dutch?”

“Guess so.”

“What’s his real name?”

“Don’t know. Anyway, the French desperately want him.”

“So?” Ryszard asked, unconcerned. If the French wanted him, let them get him.

“They don’t have anyone in position. They want him alive if at all possible. Dead if not.”

“What does this have to do with us?” Ryszard pressed.

“We’ve agreed to do them a favor.”

“I hope we’ve set a reasonable price.”

“Not my business. Anyway, see what you can do.”

“Me alone? Or is there some backup?”

“Don’t pull in any of ours; we don’t want to get that deeply into it. The names are four of their agents who will offer you assistance as necessary. They are in lower positions at other ministries and so can’t do anything on their own. Naturally, we did not keep a copy of such sensitive information and you should destroy it as well.”

“Naturally.” Ryszard almost laughed. “I’d have to reveal myself to them?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll do it alone,” Ryszard mumbled. Certainly Warszawa should have guessed that, but it was a nice touch that they had gotten the names for him in any case. The French had to be truly desperate to give up the names of four agents. “Who is this fellow?”

“An American. He’s running arms for them, purely for profit. There are four consignments expected that he controls. They don’t want to lose the arms, they don’t want the Germans to get them, and they would like to get him out because he is so useful.”

“But if not, they think he’s better off dead?”

“He knows some faces and locations.”

“French only?”

“Yes, he’s no danger to us. We’ve never dealt with him.”

“Ah. I’ll do what I can,” Ryszard promised, uninterested. Arms! To the French of all people! They would bury them in haystacks and let them rust before doing anything useful.“How long do I have?”

“We told them we wouldn’t even be able to contact our people for two or three days.”

“Good, good.”

“We implied that we would organize a forcible breakout. So, they probably won’t suspect you have anything to do with us.”

“Good.” The last thing Ryszard wanted was for the French to have him in their files: given the French sense of honor, he could figure on being betrayed within a month.“How was he picked up?”

“Somebody prepared him well. Army papers, he even had the appropriate clothes for a young, off-duty officer. He got picked up in a cafó, awaiting his contact. There seems to have been some minor fracas and he ended up betraying himself with his accent.”

Ryszard snorted his amusement. “I can work with that.” He took his leave of the courier and headed directly back to the office, planning as he went. If the man was already in custody, they probably did not have much time.

By the time he stepped into his office he had decided on a tentative course of action. He looked up the coded names and memorized them, then destroyed the scrap of paper in his ashtray. As for the photograph, he decided to keep it; it might be useful in supporting his plan. He scribbled
Van Wije
across the back, then dried the ink on a bit of paper so it looked slightly washed out. He stapled the photo to a piece of paper, and then carefully removed it, so that only the two staple holes were left to mar the photograph. He dropped the photograph into his pocket and headed down into the cells.

“Where’s the American?” he asked the officer on duty.

“Mein Herr?”
the officer stuttered in confusion.

Richard snapped open his badge and repeated his question.

“Cell nine,” the officer answered promptly, motioning to a guard to accompany Richard.“No, wait,” the officer called as they stepped through the first set of heavy doors.“He’s probably in interrogation three—HauptsturmFührer Schmidt just came through a few minutes ago.”

“Fine,” Richard acknowledged. Interrogation three: that would give it the right level of drama.

The guard led him to the appropriate room, tapped on the door, and entered. Three men were in the room, two in uniform, both standing. The third man was in civilian clothing, seated with his hands folded together, resting on the table in front of him, the wrists bound by handcuffs. Blood was spattered around the room, clearly not from the American since he looked unharmed. Nevertheless, the spattered blood and the grim room had had the desired effect: he looked terrified.

The senior officer, Schmidt, looked up with curiosity at the intrusion.

“Traugutt,” Richard announced. “Release this man into my custody.”

“I can’t do that,
mein Herr,
” Schmidt replied as politely as possible. “He’s Herr Spengler’s fish.”

“No, he’s mine. Get Spengler down here. Now!” Richard ordered. Spengler was technically superior to him, but that was not important. Politically, the man was a nobody.

Schmidt certainly reacted as though he was aware of the hidden hierarchy. He immediately ordered the junior officer to contact Spengler and request his presence.

Richard lit a cigarette to pass the few minutes until there was a response. He did not waste his breath on Schmidt or the prisoner; it was Spengler he needed to convince. He studied the prisoner and decided that someone had indeed had some inkling of what they were doing, but probably not this man himself. He was appropriately dressed in the black leather that the younger generation so favored. His jacket had a smattering of stylish fringe, his trousers were cut tight, and he wore tall boots with the almost obligatory metals clasps and buckles running up the sides. Pawel had acquired a similar set of clothing not long before leaving, and Richard had groaned in dismay.

Richard picked up the American’s papers from the table and paged through them. They looked completely in order. If the man had managed to keep his mouth shut or stick to the phrases he had been taught, he would certainly have passed without a hitch. Ah, well, there was no accounting for traffic accidents or bar fights. He tossed the papers back onto the table.

The American looked up at Richard, confused, unsure if he was being saved or damned. With a sudden, insane courage he spoke up, asserting in loud, slow American English, “I am an American and not subject to your jurisdiction! I demand to speak to a representative of my government!”

Richard walked over to the American, skirting around the table so he could confront him directly. The man looked up at him expectantly, and Richard replied with vicious force, swinging his fist into the man’s face.

“Shut up!” Richard ordered in English. “I’m your handler, you worm, and if you’ve tried to double-cross me, I will personally see to your execution!”

Shocked by the outburst, the American fell silent. He brought his bound hands up to his face, wiped a bit of blood away from his mouth, and looked at it with a vague horror.

Richard surveyed him indifferently. He could imagine the man’s thoughts. The reality of everything he had heard, all the warnings he had been given, were slowly penetrating. He had felt smugly safe, he was an American, but now it seemed that was irrelevant. Richard, seeing how he swallowed hard several times, controlled an urge to laugh.

The junior officer returned and indicated that Spengler would be along shortly. Spengler arrived ready for an argument, but Richard smiled winningly when he entered the room and preempted the debate. “Ah, Herr Spengler! Thank you for coming down. I gather some of your boys nabbed my agent here.”

“Is that who he is?”

“Yes, yes.” Richard nodded, pulling the photograph out of his pocket. “Here’s his file photo.”

Spengler looked at the photograph, compared it with the prisoner. He turned the picture over and read the name on the back.

“Where did you pick him up?” Richard asked, eyeing the prisoner as if trying to decide if he was trustworthy anymore.

“Near Calais. He’s supposed to be arranging the drop-off point for a consignment of arms.”

“Ah, he’s not supposed to be anywhere near there!” Richard fumed, mentally noting the singular used. A consignment. “Sorry about him trespassing on your turf.”

“What are you doing involved in arms shipments?” Spengler asked, accepting the apology with nothing more than a gracious nod.

“Bait. That load is supposed to be heading toward my territory. I’ll be interested in seeing what game he was playing at, working with the French. But first we have to get it routed on its original course, otherwise a perfect trap will have been wasted. Months of effort!”

“That would be a shame,” Spengler commented without sympathy.

“Yes,” Richard agreed distractedly. “I really want to thank you for your diligence here.”

“My pleasure.” Spengler’s tone betrayed surprise at the compliment. “Well, look, if he’s yours, you can have him. I’ll send the paperwork over to your secretary for your signature.”

“Great. Thanks!” Richard beamed. He turned toward the prisoner and said in English, “You’re coming with me.”

“Your agent doesn’t speak German?” Spengler asked.

“No. He really is an American,” Richard ad-libbed. He had decided there would be no point pretending that the American was faking his ignorance of German.“Killing two birds with one stone: infiltrating their network while using their system to bait the terrorists here.”

“Impressive!” Spengler conceded. “And you know English?”