Chapter Nine
It was well after dark, when Hogan slipped past the huge statue of Bismarck marking the boundary of Hamburg's outskirts. He carried a large brown parcel under his arm and, after turning up his threadbare collar against the winter wind, jammed his bare hands in the coat pockets to keep them warm. Winding his way through the narrow side streets, he purposely made several turns through adjoining alleyways to be sure he wasn't followed.
As he proceeded further into the labyrinthine maze, the surroundings noticeably deteriorated. The homes in this section seemed to have as many roof shingles missing as were left attached and any remaining decorative ironwork was long ago rusted in place. Hogan glanced quickly around and then stepped into a darkened entryway, the absence of light masking the door's worn and peeling condition. He bet it hadn't seen a coat of paint since Bismarck's time.
The foyer was dark and unlit, as much from the landlord being too cheap to keep the single hallway lamp supplied with a working bulb, as the fact that residents now had to observe nighttime light discipline. The city had recently come under bombing attacks, and the previously lackadaisical attitude of its citizens had quickly changed once they began to suffer real damage.
Hogan carefully felt his way up the creaking flight of stairs and proceeded to his right, stopping before a door at the end of the narrow corridor. He fumbled in his pockets for the key and turned it in the lock, the door swinging slowly open. Hogan cautiously entered, standing just inside for a moment to allow his vision to adjust to the dark, as he surveyed the room. Everything appeared undisturbed.
Crossing to a small table against the far wall, Hogan felt for a lamp and turned it on, the naked bulb starkly illuminating the room. He didn't have to worry about taking the precaution of drawing the shades before turning on the lamp. Apparently the landlord didn't trust her lower-class tenants and had thickly coated the windows with black paint to ensure their compliance with the evening blackouts.
Besides the table, the sparsely decorated one-room flat was furnished with only a rusted iron-frame bed, a battered straight-backed wooden chair, and a cheap dresser. Hogan's breath showed in small puffs, while he moved about the room. The lifeless radiator perched beneath one of the windows resisted all attempts to coax any heat from it, rendering the room perpetually cold. One corner of a glass windowpane had long ago been broken and the gaping hole stuffed with a wad of faded, yellowing newspaper. On blustery nights, the wind whistled, as it whipped through the fissure. By comparison, his room at Stalag 13 had seemed like a suite at the St. George's Hotel.
The stooped, gray-haired pensioner who'd rented him the flat looked at him askance because of his unkempt appearance, but he'd offered her an extra month's rent in advance and then mumbled some excuse about having traveled a long distance and not having had time to clean up. She seemed skeptical, but took his money and repeated her admonishment that he'd better not cause any trouble, or he'd find himself out in the street.
He'd purposely sought out the cheapest furnished flat he could find. He wanted a place to lay low for a while and avoid coming to anyone's attention. Some place to provide a temporary sanctuary, until he figured out what he was going to do. He didn't expect to be there for very long.
Unwrapping the parcel, the contents were spread out on the wrought iron bed. He stood back, surveying his loot, and scratched the stubble covering his face. Watches, bottles of liquor, cigarettes, and silk stockings were arrayed before him. The international currency, he thought with a grin. He'd accumulated quite a haul, given the brief bit of time he'd been at work. Newkirk would have been proud of his skill with the lock picking set he'd "borrowed" before leaving Stalag 13.
Hogan sat on the single straight-backed chair and rubbed his ankle, as he cautiously flexed the foot. It had healed well enough that his limp was hardly noticeable, and the scratches on his face had also finally disappeared. Guess it's time to start shaving again. He had to admit that he enjoyed not having to bother with the morning ritual.
He'd also found that his disheveled appearance worked to his advantage in an unexpected way. Individuals he passed on the street ignored him and pretended he didn't exist, as though afraid even their acknowledgement of his presence might precipitate his asking for a handout. It certainly made it easier to slip about unnoticed.
Hogan picked up a fifth of whiskey from the bed and broke the seal, raising the bottle in a solitary salute.
"Cheers, Herr Rudolf Jäger, you're going into business for yourself for a change."
Hogan lifted the bottle and took several long swallows; he hardly noticed the burn any more. Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he turned to collecting up the items and rewrapped them in the brown paper before crossing to one corner of the room. He lifted a floorboard, being careful not to make the ancient wood voice a protest. The parcel slipped in tightly underneath, and he replaced the board to conceal its presence. He'd be able to easily access it when he needed the items. First task, however, was to find himself a buyer.
***
Hogan quietly entered the smoke-filled Hofbrau and took his usual seat at a solitary table in the corner. He'd already had several shots alone in his room before going out that evening. It was as though he could no longer face the world without deadening himself with alcohol. Without it, he was too painfully aware of his dreary surroundings and a future that appeared more and more bleak. He sat there quietly lost in thought, head bowed, as his fingers absently drummed a tattoo on the table.
His deliberations were suddenly intruded upon by the distinct impression that someone was staring at him. He lifted his head to look directly into a pair of inquisitive hazel eyes. The brunette who accompanied them would have been more attractive if she hadn't seemed quite so worn and tired, Hogan thought. She was dressed in a flowery dirndl skirt whose fabric had seen better days, and a plain, peasant-style blouse, the sleeves tightly gathered at her wrists. She cleared her throat a second time and raised her eyebrows at him expectantly.
"Bitte?" she asked.
Hogan blinked in surprise. "What happened to Greta?"
The brunette sighed, looking even wearier, and shifted her weight from one leg to the other as though she'd been on her feet far too many hours that day. "Greta? I don't know any Greta."
"She's the waitress who's usually here. What happened to her?"
"Oh, you mean the woman who used to work here?" The brunette shrugged indifferently. "Maybe she just decided not to show up for work. All I know is Karl hired me this afternoon to help out."
"Well, I'm not complaining by any means. You're a definite improvement." Hogan grinned at her. "Must be Karl is trying to upgrade the class of this joint, hmm?"
She forced a cold smile. "I was given the job because I don't mix up the orders, I can carry six steins of beer at once without spilling a drop, and I don't date the customers. Now what do you want to drink?"
Hogan shrugged. It had been worth a try. "Bring me a glass of beer and a bottle of whiskey."
The waitress looked at him with an odd expression. "What makes you think we have whiskey here?"
Hogan wondered if his accent might be part of the reason for the suspicious look she was giving him. His German was only passable; he'd hoped they'd simply think he was a foreign Arbeiter, or displaced worker, from one of the surrounding occupied countries.
He decided to go on the offensive and fixed her with a condescending glare. "Look, I know you have whiskey here because I keep Karl, your boss, supplied with it. Now be a good Liebchen and go get me the bottle that's on the first shelf below the bar, the left side."
Her face registered a mixture of surprise and insult, and she turned on her heels without saying a word. He'd probably just ruined his chances of ever getting friendly with her, but at this point he didn't care.
She stood before him a few moments later, placing the full mug of beer and bottle of whiskey on the table. Grabbing the shot glass off the tray without waiting for her to pour, he fed himself a generous portion, throwing it back quickly. He could feel the alcohol coursing through his system and closed his eyes, the burn beginning to sweep over him, but quickly opened them again at the sound of the door opening and someone's footsteps invading the nearly empty Hofbrau.
A noticeable change in the waitress's demeanor suddenly piqued his curiosity. Her posture abruptly stiffened, as a dark-haired man, his sharply angular face underlined by a neatly trimmed goatee, entered the doorway. He stood on the threshold and looked around the room, his gaze pausing for a moment when it reached the waitress. It was the expression on her face that really caught Hogan's attention. There was a fleeting look of recognition, perceptibly tinged with fear.
She pushed some wayward locks of auburn hair back from her face, hands trembling slightly, as she approached the gentleman's table at the other side of the room. With a careful deliberateness he removed his gloves and overcoat and draped them over a nearby chair. His movements were refined, almost effete, but there was no tenderness underlying them. Instead, they conveyed a menacing presence, like a coiled rattlesnake concealed beneath a rock ledge.
Hogan overheard her politely asking the gentleman what he would like to drink. He couldn't quite catch the reply but watched with casual interest, as she returned moments later with a glass of wine. They appeared to exchange some remarks, the waitress glancing around first to see who was seated in their vicinity.
She detoured by Hogan's table on her return to the bar. "Can I get you anything else?" she inquired nonchalantly.
He knew the question wasn't necessary; it was as though she wanted an excuse to stop there.
"No, Liebchen, just keep the beer flowing and make sure this bottle doesn't empty, and I'll be fine."
He nodded as if to dismiss her, but she continued to stand there quizzically.
"What is it?" he finally asked, cocking his head to one side.
"You, er, you don't sound as though you're from here," she said hesitantly.
"My, my," Hogan retorted with a grin, "that sounds like a pickup line to me if I ever heard one."
Her face went cold once more, fixing him with an irritated glare. "I told you before, I don't date the customers."
"That's okay, honey," replied Hogan, his grin blossoming to lecherous proportions. "What I had in mind, I wouldn't exactly call dating."
He placed one hand suggestively on a curvaceous hip and tried steering her in the direction of his lap. She deftly slipped from his grasp, lashing out with one hand to deliver a resounding slap. Despite the numbing effects of the alcohol, Hogan noticed the blow seemed designed to create more noise than actual hurt--her hand was cupped as it made contact. He doubted there was even a mark left on his cheek, although the sound had effectively startled him and the few patrons who were still present.
She turned angrily on her heel and retreated to the bar. Hogan chuckled to himself. It didn't matter what the nationality, there was no figuring dames.
He poured himself another shot glass of whiskey, as the stranger called the waitress back to his table. She approached the gentleman, her hazel eyes inquiring, but guarded. Hogan couldn't hear what the man said, but didn't miss the quick glance she fired to his table before subtly shifting her body to block his view. Even if he could lip-read in German, that would certainly prevent him from observing what they were saying, he noted with annoyance.
"Bitte?" the waitress asked. She noticed the glass of wine before him was still untouched.
"Fraulein," the gentleman said, "I was just wondering who your friend is over there." He inclined his head slightly in the direction of Hogan's table.
The waitress looked over her shoulder and then quickly turned back, shifting her body to one side to conceal their conversation.
"He's not a friend," she said icily. "He's just some customer who's had too much to drink and tried to get fresh with me."
"I don't recall seeing him around before. Do you know who he is?" he asked with curiosity.
"No, and I don't care. If you're so interested, why don't you go ask him," she replied haughtily.
His next move caught her completely off-guard. She was leaning on her hands on the edge of the table to take some weight off her aching feet, when the stranger's arm darted out with serpentine quickness, pinning one hand to the table's surface. The suddenness of his gesture startled her, but the vise-like strength he employed kept her from recoiling and truly frightened her.
"Ouch," she said tensely under her breath, "you're hurting me."
"You haven't even begun to know the meaning of the word hurt."
He applied even more crushing force against the fragile bones and tendons of the back of her hand. She bit her lip to keep from crying out.
"What do you want from me?" she asked, her breath coming in short gasps.
"I want you to find out whatever you can about the man at that table. If you insist on being stubborn, I could make things very unpleasant for you." The thin, bloodless lips curled into an artificial smile before he released her hand.
Shaken, she picked up her empty tray from the table.
"Ja...jawohl," she stuttered, turning away. Hogan glanced up, as she passed by his table. The color had drained from her face, and she seemed to be trembling slightly. He downed the rest of his beer and shrugged indifferently to himself. What did it matter to him if she'd been upset by her clearly private tête-a-tête with the stranger? Dropping some Reichsmarks on the table, he stood, wavering slightly, and made his way out of the bar, his head bowed and coat pulled tight around him against the bitter wind.
***
The biting wind threatened to disperse the playing cards atop the table, as the barracks door suddenly blew open, admitting a grimy, unshaven prisoner. The card players scarcely gave him a glance. Ignoring them in turn, Braden sauntered across the room to his bunk and leaned against the frame, stretching his arms in an exaggerated yawn that broke the chilly silence.
"I don't know what would feel better right now--to sleep for twenty-four hours or grab a shower and shave first," he weighed aloud, rubbing red-rimmed eyes with his fists. His weary face was heavily forested with two-weeks' worth of beard, and he absently scratched the growth while gazing around the barracks.
"So, did you guys miss me?" he asked with a sneer to no one in particular.
Newkirk broke his concentration from a less-than-promising hand and raised his eyes in an aggravated look.
"Here now, did you go somewhere?" he said acidly. Turning to the others, he asked, "Why didn't someone tell me he'd been away? I might've had LeBeau here bake a cake for his homecoming."
Carter chuckled. "Yeah, we missed you, Braden," he added sarcastically. "No one's lost their shirt in a card game since you've been in the cooler."
Braden grunted his retort and turned to rummage through a footlocker, retrieving his towel and shaving kit. He slung the towel over one shoulder and picked up the kit bag before ambling toward the door. Taking an inventory of the players around the table, he suddenly noted Hogan's absence.
"So, where's the old man?" he asked with a sniff. Braden hooked his thumb toward the private room at the end of the barracks. "Taking an afternoon snooze, I suppose?" The men around the table glanced knowingly at each other, but didn't give him the satisfaction of a response.
He curiously watched their silent exchange. "What, don't tell me he pulled a longer stretch in the cooler than I did?" His face broke out in a huge grin, as he clapped Kinch resoundingly on the back and guffawed in laughter. "Why, that old marshmallow Klink really showed some spine for a change!"
Kinch coolly laid down his cards before looking up crossly at the grinning non-comm. "No, Braden, he didn't pull a stretch in the cooler for that fight you provoked with another one of your smart remarks."
Braden's face darkened. "What?! You mean that sonuvabitch got off scot free without any punishment?" He angrily smacked one end of his towel against the table, scattering the deck of cards.
Kinch slowly stood up, rigidly holding out one arm to restrain Newkirk from vaulting across the table. He spoke tersely, his dark eyes blazing, as he turned toward Braden.
"Listen up good, Braden, because we're only going to go over this one time. If you ever refer to our former CO again it had better be as Colonel Hogan, got it?"
Kinch continued before Braden could voice the question reflected in his eyes.
"The Colonel didn't get a stretch in solitary, because instead General Burkhalter ordered him transferred to Dachau."
Braden gaped in disbelief. "Dachau? You're joking, right?" He turned to look at the other men glaring at him from around the table.
"I wouldn't joke about something like that. Fortunately, he managed to knock out his guard en route and escape."
The surly POW snorted in disgust. "Oh yeah, and I suppose now he's back home living it up?"
LeBeau spoke up, his voice quiet. "Au contraire. He can't go back because of the charges brought against him. He's somewhere out there on his own."
"He can't even use the same escape network he helped to create because everybody in the underground's been told to look out for him." Carter threw down his cards in disgust.
Braden slung the towel over his shoulder. "Yeah, well, I still say he's better off than we are here, so I wouldn't feel all broken up over it, if I were you."
He stepped to the door. "Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I'm going to try and shower off this grime. With one less prisoner in camp, maybe I'll get lucky and find some hot water for a change."
No one returned his smirk, as the door slammed shut behind him.
Chapter Ten
Hogan sat at his usual table, drumming his fingers anxiously against its surface. It had been several hours since he'd had a drink, and the effects were beginning to wear off. The waitress approached him, looking as tired as the night before.
"Bitte?" she asked in a voice monotoned with fatigue and apathy. She stood before him, her eyes straying to other parts of the room, as she shifted impatiently from one foot to the other.
"Same as usual, Liebchen." He tried to force some cheeriness into his voice.
She looked at him with a bemused expression. "And that would be...?"
"Hmm, I thought I made more of an impression on you than that," he said flirtatiously. She didn't even crack a smile. Deflated, he said glumly, "Beer and a whiskey." He'd half hoped she might be in a friendlier mood this evening, but that was evidently not the case.
She returned momentarily with his order and set it before him.
"You know, I don't think I remember your name," Hogan inquired.
"That's probably because I didn't tell you my name," she said curtly.
"Ah, well, I'll forgive the oversight this time." He summoned one of his warm, attractive smiles for her. "So, just what is your name?"
She paused for a few moments, assessing the searching look in his eyes. Beneath the transparent flirtatiousness, he seemed genuinely desperate for companionship. She had to admit there was something about him...
"Leisa," she said begrudgingly. "Leisa Engel. And you seem to have neglected to mention yours, Herr...?"
"Herr Rudolf Jäger, but let's not be so formal, hmm?" Hogan's smile broadened. "Please call me Rudy."
He held up a large brass fob dangling a key from the other end.
"Here," he said, waving the fob slightly, "this is the key to my flat in case you'd like to visit me later. Konigstrasse 39, second level."
She took the key and studied it in the palm of her hand. What could possibly have made her think this man was any different from all the others?
"Is that so?" she remarked. "How thoughtful." She swung the fob over the stein of beer, letting it slip from her fingers into the foamy brew. "Tsk, tsk," she clucked with feigned disappointment and turned on her heels. "Happy hunting, Herr Jäger."
Hogan thought he detected a hint of a smile at the corner of her mouth. At least she'd remembered his name. He'd have to keep working on her, he thought, his face furrowing in a frown, as he dipped into the stein.
He lifted the key, dripping foam, as the door opened with a whoosh, the wind whipping inside the bar. Several patrons nearest the entrance voiced protests, but silenced their complaints, noticeably shrinking back in fear, as the dark-haired man in the doorway looked sternly in their direction. He proceeded to an opposite corner of the room and shed his overcoat, shaking off the snow. Hogan lifted his beer, pretending not to notice when Leisa glanced his way first before approaching the gentleman.
Leisa set her tray on the table and ran a cloth around the already clean surface.
"Guten abend, mein Herr."
"Abend, Fraulein."
"And what would you care to drink this evening?" she asked.
"I think I will have a schnapps to take away some of this chill."
She nodded and began to head toward the bar.
"Just a moment, don't be in such a hurry," he commanded. She froze and returned to the table, a questioning look in her face that she hoped concealed the fear she felt.
"Did you obtain the information I asked for?"
Leisa tried licking her lips and found her mouth dry. "Er, what was that, mein Herr?"
"Come now, you remember," he said, his voice oily, but the threat underlying it still apparent. "Let's not play games, shall we? I don't have time for such nonsense."
She swallowed hard. "Ja, ja, I'm sorry, I'm just a bit tired this evening." Brushing back some stray strands of hair, she glanced over one shoulder. Jäger seemed preoccupied with pouring himself another drink. She turned back to the tall stranger, positioning herself so Jäger would be unable to monitor their conversation.
"His name is Rudolf Jäger, he lives at Konigstrasse 39, second level." Leisa cleared her throat before continuing. "Karl said he deals in the black market. Liquor, cigarettes, wristwatches, whatever you need, he can get it." She paused, looking uncertain. "Is that what you wanted?"
"That will do very nicely for now, my dear," he said evenly. Leisa appeared momentarily relieved. "However, I want you to keep an eye on him. Let me know if he seems to be up to anything other than his black market dealings. Get to know him as well as a pretty thing like you can, hmm?"
Leisa tossed her head. "I can't stand him," she said huffily.
"I don't care if you like him or not, I want you to keep an eye on him for me. I'm not paying you to fall in love with him. Verstehen Sie?"
"Ja...jawohl, mein Herr, I understand." She nodded acquiescently before turning to head back to the bar.
"Not so quickly."
Leisa stopped in her tracks. Oh dear, just when she thought she'd finally be free of this horrid man.
"Bitte?" she meekly inquired.
"What is Herr Jäger drinking this evening?"
"What he usually drinks--whiskey and beer."
The gentleman pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Hmm, bring me a tall glass of whiskey."
Leisa appeared confused. "Do you want that instead of the schnapps?"
"The schnapps is for me, and the whiskey is for Herr Jäger, but just bring them both to my table, if you will, my dear."
Leisa nodded mutely, a relieved look on her face, as he dismissed her with a wave of his hand. She returned a moment later with the drinks, reaching into her skirt pocket to make change for the large denomination note he handed her.
"No, no change is necessary, my dear," he said with cloying sweetness. "You may keep that for your efforts."
"Ja, ja," Leisa said in amazement. "Danke schoen, mein Herr."
"One more thing," he said, as she turned to leave. She halted, slowly turning back to face him, the tension etched on her face. "I'd like you to ask Herr Jäger to join me at my table."
She nodded hesitantly and, picking up her tray, shakily made her way across the room. Hogan lifted his eyes questioningly, when she neared his table. Leisa stood before him, her face curiously strained.
"The gentleman at the table over there," she inclined her head, "would like you to join him for a drink."
Hogan peered around her. The dark-haired stranger with the goatee was the only patron in that direction. Hogan lifted his glass disinterestedly, turning his gaze back toward the waitress.
"Tell him I prefer to drink alone."
Leisa looked at him with surprise, her lips parting slightly, as though about to say something, but then she firmly set her mouth once more, thinking better of it. She returned to the stranger's table to relay Jäger's response. Hogan noticed her back stiffen. After a few moments, the gentleman rose and, picking up the glasses from the table, leisurely crossed the room.
"Herr Jäger?" the gentleman inquired in a civil tone.
Hogan glared at him.
"Maybe. What's it to you?" he grumbled, his tone distinctly unfriendly.
One eyebrow arched over a cold, steel-gray eye, as he slowly pulled out the chair opposite Hogan and sat down, sliding the glass of whiskey toward him. There was an air of detached curiosity that failed to completely mask the reserved malevolence in his approach.
"I'd like to buy you a drink."
Hogan hungrily eyed the tall glass for a moment, filled nearly to the brim, and then looked directly at the stranger. "No thanks. My mother told me never to drink with strangers."
The gentleman's head suddenly tilted upwards, his bloodless lips curling back. Although some might call the noise that emerged laughter, Hogan shivered imperceptibly at the chilling sound.
"Of course, please excuse my lapse in manners. I am Herr Kronbach, Albert Kronbach." It was said in the manner of a man who is used to some sign of recognition at the mention of his name. A response probably not characterized by feelings of warmth or joy, Hogan surmised.
"I see." He continued to meet the man's icy stare. "Well, you apparently already know my name."
"I was wondering if you might be new to town. I don't recall seeing you here before."
Hogan paused before carefully answering. "You could say I'm just passing through."
"Well, while you're in town, I have a proposition for you. I understand you have a knack for obtaining, shall we say, certain articles of merchandise that are hard to find these days?"
Hogan's eyes narrowed. "Maybe I do and maybe I don't. What are you looking for?"
Kronbach chuckled. "No, my friend, you misunderstand. I'm not in need of anything myself. Rather, I'd like to propose a partnership. I may be able to help you expand the success of your business enterprise, hmm?"
"I don't believe in partnerships," Hogan said gruffly. "They remind me too much of marriage." He lifted the glass of whiskey and drained half of it in one gulp, shuddering as the liquid burned its way down his throat.
Kronbach persisted, leaning forward slightly and lowering his voice. "You might want to reconsider, Herr Jäger. I think I should tell you that it very much would be in your best interests to accept my offer." A small, dangerous smile appeared on his thin lips.
Hogan looked intently at him. "Look, I don't care who the hell you are, I told you, I'm not interested. I work only for myself. I've got no boss, no one to report to, and that's the way I like it. Next time you want to consider a business investment, why don't you try the stock exchange? I hear it might be big some day."
Hogan rose slowly from the table, his eyes riveted on Kronbach. He drained the rest of the glass, then reached into his pocket and extracted several bills, tossing them on the table.
"There, just so you don't think there's any obligation between us."
Hogan picked up his glass of beer and walked unhurriedly to a table at the opposite side of the Hofbrau, where he deposited himself in a chair. He concentrated on pouring another shot of whiskey, refusing to return the menacing stare aimed at him from across the room.
Leisa's eyes widened from her observation post at the bar. She hoped Jäger knew what he was doing. Whatever he'd said had clearly made Kronbach angry, and that wasn't the effect most people wanted to attain in their dealings with the man. She held her breath as Kronbach, his mouth set in anger and nostrils flaring, stood from the table. He deliberately put on his overcoat, his eyes locked in the direction of Jäger's table.
She hoped there wouldn't be a confrontation. Karl had stepped out momentarily to check some inventory in the cellar, and she wouldn't have anyone to turn to for help in breaking up a fight. With a sigh of relief, she watched as Kronbach began to make his way across the room and then abruptly angled for the door, storming out into the blustery night.
Her hands shaking, Leisa picked up her tray and a towel and proceeded hesitantly to Jäger's table. She looked cautiously around the nearly empty room. Only a few patrons remained, and they didn't seem to have noticed the incipient confrontation. Jäger's head was bowed, his face cloaked in a dark scowl. Leisa dropped her towel onto the table and pretended to wipe up an imaginary spill from its surface. Leaning over, she spoke in a low voice, her eyes darting nervously toward the door.
"Look, I'm not trying to interfere, but I think you should know the fellow you were talking with is not the sort of man you want to cross."
Hogan lifted his head in surprise and then resumed his frown. "If I want advice, I'll ask for it," he said harshly. He looked at her suspiciously. "What's it to you, anyway?"
Her tone changed to pleading. "Look, don't annoy him, just go along with whatever he wants, okay?"
Hogan shrugged. "What can he do to me?"
Her eyes dark with fear, she leaned closer and hoarsely whispered, "Geheime Staats Polizei."
Not seeing any reaction from him, she rolled her eyes in exasperation and hissed intently, "Gestapo, Dummkopf."
Hogan snorted. "I don't intend to be around here long enough for anyone to catch up with me, especially the Gestapo."
Leisa looked at him in amazement and then shrugged and turned away. This man is so incredibly stubborn, she thought. This is going to be more difficult an assignment than I'd thought.
Hogan sat slumped at the table, staring at the bottle before him. He poured another drink and halfheartedly lifted the glass. What could Kronbach do, he wondered? After being threatened with transfer to Dachau, anything else would be mild by comparison. Hogan recalled the prison he'd passed on the outskirts of Hamburg. One day while walking nearby, he'd heard the pitiful screams and moans drifting over its high stone walls. The effects of the sort of treatment he would have been subjected to, if he'd not made his escape.
He brushed away the disturbing memory and looked around the Hofbrau. The place was nearly deserted. Between the late hour and wintry conditions, few had bothered to venture out. Hogan was just as glad for the solitude. Something about Kronbach thoroughly irritated him. He had a feeling he'd be drinking more than usual this evening as a result. In addition to keeping at bay the recall of events that brought him to this predicament, he now would have to also subdue the memory of this recent unpleasant encounter. Hogan shuddered and lifted his glass once more. All he wanted was to transform himself to the point of barely conscious alcoholic numbness, so he wouldn't have to deal with the world and its problems.
Problems. He allowed himself to mentally drift back to Stalag 13 and realized it felt a long time since he'd been relieved of the pressures of command. He wondered how the men were getting on without him, but was still sentient enough that he didn't want to pursue that psychological path and the feelings it might trigger. His head drooped slightly. It was too late--the flood of emotions began, sweeping over him in tides of regret. He'd get by somehow--he only hoped his men would make it through as well without him.
Chapter Eleven
A match flame sparked suddenly in the dark street, briefly illuminating a man's sharply pointed visage. Kronbach inhaled deeply on the cigarette, pacing furiously back and forth. He was not used to being dealt with in that manner. Two men emerged from the bar, pulling up their collars against the snow that had once again begun to fall. They were rough-looking men, one short and thickset, with a boxer's face and body, the other tall, a lantern jaw his only distinguishing feature. They stopped before him, clearly noting his still seething anger.
"Did you see the man at that table?" Kronbach asked, gesturing toward the window of the Hofbrau.
"Jawohl, Herr Major."
"His name is Jäger."
"Herr Jäger did not seem to appreciate the generosity of your offer."
Kronbach grunted in response. "I expect he will come to realize he made a serious mistake."
"You want us to dispose of him for you, Herr Major?" the taller man asked.
Kronbach pursed his lips thoughtfully and then took another deep pull on his cigarette, the brightening tip casting an ominous red glow across his face.
"No, Hermann, not immediately. This Jäger might appear to be a worthless drunk, but he may be of use to us, at least for a short while."
The shorter of the two men looked disappointed and longingly fingered a heavy switchblade concealed in his pocket. Kronbach nodded understandingly, patting him on the shoulder.
"Don't worry, Gunther. You will have your chance eventually. For now I want you two to teach Jäger a lesson in business etiquette. Make him understand he should treat his future partner with better manners. But do not kill him. Not yet. Understood?"
Hermann signaled his comprehension. Gunther merely stood there, sullen and silent.
"Understood, Gunther?" Kronbach repeated more insistently.
The shorter man nodded reluctantly.
"Good. He should be departing before long, and then you'll have your opportunity."
"But what if he doesn't want to listen to, er, reason?" Hermann asked.
The Gestapo major peered at the lone patron seated inside the bar. "I think our friend has a particular Achilles heel that we will find easy enough to exploit."
Kronbach continued to watch the solitary figure through the window. Even if Jäger changed his attitude after this evening, which he expected he would, his drinking would still present a problem. For now, Kronbach was temporarily willing to tolerate the behavior. He would see what he could use him for, drain him for all he was worth, and then dispose of him, permanently. In the meantime, he might prove quite useful in a number of ways, Kronbach thought, as he absently rubbed the side of his pointed nose.
***
Hogan sat slumped over the table, his head resting on his forearms. He'd half hoped he'd drink enough to pass out, but he hadn't been successful, even though he'd given it one hell of a try. The bottle of whiskey before him was nearly empty, and still he clung to consciousness. He wanted to have it all fade from his awareness, to drift away and be able to pass a few hours painlessly in the undisturbed stupor of intoxication, but tonight for whatever reason such refuge eluded him.
He jerked up suddenly at the sensation of a hand on his shoulder. It was only Leisa. The bar had emptied out, and he was the last remaining customer. The waitress stood there looking at him, a concerned expression on her face. He shook his head to try and clear the haze, momentarily setting the room spinning. Even though he'd been unable to render himself unconscious with drink, he still hadn't remained immune to its effects.
"Entschuldigen Sie, bitte," Leisa said hesitantly. She was holding a broom in one hand and appeared ready to close up.
Hogan grimaced. "I know, I know. Yer tryin' t'close an' ya wan' me outta here. All right, ya don' hafta ask twice. I can find m'own way out, thank you v'ry much." Hogan came unsteadily to his feet, thrusting his chest out while making his little speech. He half hoped the gesture would provide more dignity than his slurred voice lent, as he turned to aim shakily for the door.
Leisa watched him go and realized that in a way she felt sorry for Jäger. She had to admit beneath the disheveled appearance, he was a handsome man. But she couldn't afford to get involved with him. Not if she was to do the job they'd instructed her to do. Picking up the bills he'd left on the table, she saw him lurch for the exit and was amazed that he was able to navigate his way up the few steps to street level without stumbling over his unsteady feet. She turned back with a sigh, beginning to sweep the floor of the now empty Hofbrau.
Hogan stood at the top of the stairs, swaying as he bent his head back and gazed up at the night sky. He remained that way for what felt like a long time, breathing in the crisp evening air laden with the scent of fresh snow. It was only after several fat, wet flakes deposited on his upturned face that he realized it was still coming down heavily. He shivered, clumsily wiping the moistness from his face, before turning his coat collar up and beginning to stagger down the darkened street.
Turning left, he entered an alleyway that served as a shortcut to his flat. His hands were shoved in the pockets of his overcoat to keep them warm and head was bowed, as he stumbled along. He knew the way by rote and didn't need to look up to follow the path.
Suddenly, he sensed something blocking his way. Hogan brought himself up short, making out a dark figure directly in front of him. Muttering an apology, he stepped to one side. The man, his face hooded by the brim of a fedora pulled low over his eyes, stepped in the same direction.
Hogan chuckled. "Hey, if yer lookin' for a dance partner, ya got th' wrong guy. I'm def'nitely not yer type," he mumbled, as he stepped aside once more. Alarms began to go off in his head, as the man parroted him.
Footsteps from behind drew his attention, and he turned to see another figure approaching him from the rear. Had he been sober, he probably could have taken the two of them, but in his present state, he knew he was at a distinct disadvantage.
"We've got the right guy alright. We want to talk with you about your refusal of Herr Kronbach's business offer."
Hogan spread his feet a bit wider to steady himself and looked warily at the shadowed figure in front of him.
"Oh, is tha' wha' this 's about? Lookit, I tol' your frien' Kronbach I'm not int'rested in workin' with him. If he's gotta complaint, tell 'im to take it to th' better business bureau."
Hogan moved forward to try and pass by, but a hand thrust against his chest pushed him roughly back.
"I think we could persuade you to change your mind."
The first man looked over Hogan's shoulders and nodded to his partner. As Hogan tried to glance back, he found his arms tightly grabbed from behind. He turned forward, his head connecting with a fist that snapped it to the left. A second punch jerked him in the opposite direction and immediately filled his mouth with blood. Hogan struggled to free himself, but his arms were only gripped more forcefully, threatening to wrench his shoulders from their sockets. A painful series of blows to his ribs and abdomen left him gasping to breathe. His body involuntarily willed him to double over, but the restraints from behind kept him firmly upright.
In desperation, Hogan brought his heel sharply back, forcing a curse, as the man behind him grabbed his knee in pain. Quickly taking advantage of his momentary release, Hogan stumbled forward, throwing his arms out as though to recover his balance. Instead, he grasped the taller man firmly by the shoulders and sprang upward, the crown of his head smashing into his assailant's nose. The man moaned in pain, reeling backwards, as he brought his hands to his face to try and stem the blood pouring from the broken nose.
Hogan stood tottering over him, when he heard a metallic click from behind. Out of the corner of one eye he caught a glint of steel arcing downward. Instinctively, his right hand rose as a shield, its fingers curling reflexively around the double-edged blade, as the sharp knife sliced deeply through fleshy pads. Groaning in agony, Hogan hastily pulled his hand back and clutched it to his chest, quickly turning the shirt crimson.
"Put that away," the first man hissed, wiping ineffectually at his bloodied face. "You know what we were told. He's only to be taught a lesson."
Hogan bent over and grasped his bleeding hand, as the snow beneath him began to darken with a wet stain.
The man with the switchblade snapped it shut in disgust and then palmed it as a makeshift set of brass knuckles. He thrust forward, viciously spearing his victim. A wave of nausea swept over Hogan, while one kidney seemed to erupt in a rippling current of pain. His body collapsed, dropping him to his knees. As he leaned forward helplessly, his forehead against the cold, wet ground, the first few uncontrollable spasms began. The mostly liquid sustenance he'd taken in that day was vomited before him, the contents mixing with the bloodied snow.
Through his haze, Hogan thought he heard the sounds of feet scrambling around him. Were more wolves coming to join the pack, sensing an easy kill, he wondered?
He felt a hand on his shoulder and tiredly shook his aching head.
"Enough already, y'got th' point across," he muttered, trying to draw himself upright.
"Mein Gott, what did they do to you?" a woman's voice answered softly. Still staggered, Hogan looked up into a pair of concerned hazel eyes. Leisa quickly sucked in her breath, spotting the bloodstained shirt. Am I too late? She worriedly pulled his hand away, afraid she'd find a protruding knife. The shirt, although soaked with red, was intact. She glanced down at his moist, sticky hand. The inner surface of his fingers and palm were deeply cut. Leisa quickly removed the kerchief covering her head, wrapping it tightly around his hand and tying it in a knot to control the bleeding.
"Wait here," she said urgently, straightening herself up with a grunt. Without answering, Hogan crumpled forward into the snow, another spasm of nausea overtaking him.
Leisa returned in the direction from which she'd come, stopping before the door to the Hofbrau. She peered through a side window, hoping desperately to find Karl there. Shakily opening the door with a key, she entered the darkened bar. A light was still on, and she breathed a sigh of relief, as she hurried to a rear room.
"Karl," she called out anxiously. "Karl!" A balding man with his sleeves rolled up appeared in the doorway, a curious look on his face.
"What is it, Leisa?" Karl stood there, wiping his hands on the apron tied around his waist. "I thought you left already."
"I did, but had to come back for some bandages. I found--" Leisa halted, then peered around with a frightened look. "Is anyone back there with you?" she asked hesitantly.
"No, you can relax, there's no one here." Karl frowned. "What's the matter, Leisa? You look as white as a ghost."
"That man, Jäger, is in the alley out back. He's been beaten, and his hand is badly cut. I'll need some bandages."
Karl shook his head angrily. "Sounds like Kronbach and his henchmen."
Leisa nodded, her face set in disappointment. "I never should have let him go in the state he was in..."
"Don't blame yourself. You're doing a fine job. You can't be there to keep an eye on him all the time," Karl retorted, as he headed toward a back room.
He returned a moment later, reappearing with a box of first aid supplies. "Do you think I should contact the control section to let them know what has happened?"
"That's not necessary," said Leisa, as she took the box from him. "They'll just want to call things off prematurely--I have a feeling there is much more he has yet to do."
Leisa filled her purse with supplies and paused to look up. "Don't worry, I'll be careful." She pulled her coat around her once more and closed up the box, handing it back.
"Ja, alright then."
Karl walked her to the door, locking it behind her, as she hurried up the steps. He shook his head. He hoped she knew what she was getting herself into. This assignment was quickly turning into far more than any of them had ever expected.
Leisa rounded the corner and glanced into the darkened alley to find it empty. She quickened her steps, reaching the bloodstained snow and feeling herself begin to panic. What if Kronbach's men had come back for Jäger and taken him off somewhere to finish the job? Had she made a mistake by leaving him?
She looked around anxiously, when her attention was drawn by a low moan. Holding her breath, she walked slowly toward one side of the alley. As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she recognized a figure slumped in a doorway. She hurried forward, kneeling before him and gently brushing back a dark shock of damp hair from his forehead. He looked up at her with confused, dazed eyes.
"Whatcha doin' here?" he mumbled suspiciously. "Tryin' to put th' finishin' touches on wha' yer friends started?" He gruffly cast off her hand from his shoulder, while he struggled to stand up, leaning heavily against the doorframe for balance.
Leisa looked away guiltily. "No. I didn't know they were going to do this to you. I...I had nothing to do with this. You have to believe me."
"Wunderbar. You had nothin' t'do with this. So, why're ya here? Doncha have a Party meetin' or somethin' t'go to?"
Leisa set her jaw firmly. "Look, you need some help. All I'm going to do is get you back to your flat. That's it. Okay?"
Hogan made no further protests. He knew he was too incapacitated to make it back safely on his own. Reluctantly, he put his good arm around Leisa's shoulders. She reached around him to encircle his waist, and they began to slowly wind their way through the snow-covered streets.
It was well after dark, when Hogan slipped past the huge statue of Bismarck marking the boundary of Hamburg's outskirts. He carried a large brown parcel under his arm and, after turning up his threadbare collar against the winter wind, jammed his bare hands in the coat pockets to keep them warm. Winding his way through the narrow side streets, he purposely made several turns through adjoining alleyways to be sure he wasn't followed.
As he proceeded further into the labyrinthine maze, the surroundings noticeably deteriorated. The homes in this section seemed to have as many roof shingles missing as were left attached and any remaining decorative ironwork was long ago rusted in place. Hogan glanced quickly around and then stepped into a darkened entryway, the absence of light masking the door's worn and peeling condition. He bet it hadn't seen a coat of paint since Bismarck's time.
The foyer was dark and unlit, as much from the landlord being too cheap to keep the single hallway lamp supplied with a working bulb, as the fact that residents now had to observe nighttime light discipline. The city had recently come under bombing attacks, and the previously lackadaisical attitude of its citizens had quickly changed once they began to suffer real damage.
Hogan carefully felt his way up the creaking flight of stairs and proceeded to his right, stopping before a door at the end of the narrow corridor. He fumbled in his pockets for the key and turned it in the lock, the door swinging slowly open. Hogan cautiously entered, standing just inside for a moment to allow his vision to adjust to the dark, as he surveyed the room. Everything appeared undisturbed.
Crossing to a small table against the far wall, Hogan felt for a lamp and turned it on, the naked bulb starkly illuminating the room. He didn't have to worry about taking the precaution of drawing the shades before turning on the lamp. Apparently the landlord didn't trust her lower-class tenants and had thickly coated the windows with black paint to ensure their compliance with the evening blackouts.
Besides the table, the sparsely decorated one-room flat was furnished with only a rusted iron-frame bed, a battered straight-backed wooden chair, and a cheap dresser. Hogan's breath showed in small puffs, while he moved about the room. The lifeless radiator perched beneath one of the windows resisted all attempts to coax any heat from it, rendering the room perpetually cold. One corner of a glass windowpane had long ago been broken and the gaping hole stuffed with a wad of faded, yellowing newspaper. On blustery nights, the wind whistled, as it whipped through the fissure. By comparison, his room at Stalag 13 had seemed like a suite at the St. George's Hotel.
The stooped, gray-haired pensioner who'd rented him the flat looked at him askance because of his unkempt appearance, but he'd offered her an extra month's rent in advance and then mumbled some excuse about having traveled a long distance and not having had time to clean up. She seemed skeptical, but took his money and repeated her admonishment that he'd better not cause any trouble, or he'd find himself out in the street.
He'd purposely sought out the cheapest furnished flat he could find. He wanted a place to lay low for a while and avoid coming to anyone's attention. Some place to provide a temporary sanctuary, until he figured out what he was going to do. He didn't expect to be there for very long.
Unwrapping the parcel, the contents were spread out on the wrought iron bed. He stood back, surveying his loot, and scratched the stubble covering his face. Watches, bottles of liquor, cigarettes, and silk stockings were arrayed before him. The international currency, he thought with a grin. He'd accumulated quite a haul, given the brief bit of time he'd been at work. Newkirk would have been proud of his skill with the lock picking set he'd "borrowed" before leaving Stalag 13.
Hogan sat on the single straight-backed chair and rubbed his ankle, as he cautiously flexed the foot. It had healed well enough that his limp was hardly noticeable, and the scratches on his face had also finally disappeared. Guess it's time to start shaving again. He had to admit that he enjoyed not having to bother with the morning ritual.
He'd also found that his disheveled appearance worked to his advantage in an unexpected way. Individuals he passed on the street ignored him and pretended he didn't exist, as though afraid even their acknowledgement of his presence might precipitate his asking for a handout. It certainly made it easier to slip about unnoticed.
Hogan picked up a fifth of whiskey from the bed and broke the seal, raising the bottle in a solitary salute.
"Cheers, Herr Rudolf Jäger, you're going into business for yourself for a change."
Hogan lifted the bottle and took several long swallows; he hardly noticed the burn any more. Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he turned to collecting up the items and rewrapped them in the brown paper before crossing to one corner of the room. He lifted a floorboard, being careful not to make the ancient wood voice a protest. The parcel slipped in tightly underneath, and he replaced the board to conceal its presence. He'd be able to easily access it when he needed the items. First task, however, was to find himself a buyer.
***
Hogan quietly entered the smoke-filled Hofbrau and took his usual seat at a solitary table in the corner. He'd already had several shots alone in his room before going out that evening. It was as though he could no longer face the world without deadening himself with alcohol. Without it, he was too painfully aware of his dreary surroundings and a future that appeared more and more bleak. He sat there quietly lost in thought, head bowed, as his fingers absently drummed a tattoo on the table.
His deliberations were suddenly intruded upon by the distinct impression that someone was staring at him. He lifted his head to look directly into a pair of inquisitive hazel eyes. The brunette who accompanied them would have been more attractive if she hadn't seemed quite so worn and tired, Hogan thought. She was dressed in a flowery dirndl skirt whose fabric had seen better days, and a plain, peasant-style blouse, the sleeves tightly gathered at her wrists. She cleared her throat a second time and raised her eyebrows at him expectantly.
"Bitte?" she asked.
Hogan blinked in surprise. "What happened to Greta?"
The brunette sighed, looking even wearier, and shifted her weight from one leg to the other as though she'd been on her feet far too many hours that day. "Greta? I don't know any Greta."
"She's the waitress who's usually here. What happened to her?"
"Oh, you mean the woman who used to work here?" The brunette shrugged indifferently. "Maybe she just decided not to show up for work. All I know is Karl hired me this afternoon to help out."
"Well, I'm not complaining by any means. You're a definite improvement." Hogan grinned at her. "Must be Karl is trying to upgrade the class of this joint, hmm?"
She forced a cold smile. "I was given the job because I don't mix up the orders, I can carry six steins of beer at once without spilling a drop, and I don't date the customers. Now what do you want to drink?"
Hogan shrugged. It had been worth a try. "Bring me a glass of beer and a bottle of whiskey."
The waitress looked at him with an odd expression. "What makes you think we have whiskey here?"
Hogan wondered if his accent might be part of the reason for the suspicious look she was giving him. His German was only passable; he'd hoped they'd simply think he was a foreign Arbeiter, or displaced worker, from one of the surrounding occupied countries.
He decided to go on the offensive and fixed her with a condescending glare. "Look, I know you have whiskey here because I keep Karl, your boss, supplied with it. Now be a good Liebchen and go get me the bottle that's on the first shelf below the bar, the left side."
Her face registered a mixture of surprise and insult, and she turned on her heels without saying a word. He'd probably just ruined his chances of ever getting friendly with her, but at this point he didn't care.
She stood before him a few moments later, placing the full mug of beer and bottle of whiskey on the table. Grabbing the shot glass off the tray without waiting for her to pour, he fed himself a generous portion, throwing it back quickly. He could feel the alcohol coursing through his system and closed his eyes, the burn beginning to sweep over him, but quickly opened them again at the sound of the door opening and someone's footsteps invading the nearly empty Hofbrau.
A noticeable change in the waitress's demeanor suddenly piqued his curiosity. Her posture abruptly stiffened, as a dark-haired man, his sharply angular face underlined by a neatly trimmed goatee, entered the doorway. He stood on the threshold and looked around the room, his gaze pausing for a moment when it reached the waitress. It was the expression on her face that really caught Hogan's attention. There was a fleeting look of recognition, perceptibly tinged with fear.
She pushed some wayward locks of auburn hair back from her face, hands trembling slightly, as she approached the gentleman's table at the other side of the room. With a careful deliberateness he removed his gloves and overcoat and draped them over a nearby chair. His movements were refined, almost effete, but there was no tenderness underlying them. Instead, they conveyed a menacing presence, like a coiled rattlesnake concealed beneath a rock ledge.
Hogan overheard her politely asking the gentleman what he would like to drink. He couldn't quite catch the reply but watched with casual interest, as she returned moments later with a glass of wine. They appeared to exchange some remarks, the waitress glancing around first to see who was seated in their vicinity.
She detoured by Hogan's table on her return to the bar. "Can I get you anything else?" she inquired nonchalantly.
He knew the question wasn't necessary; it was as though she wanted an excuse to stop there.
"No, Liebchen, just keep the beer flowing and make sure this bottle doesn't empty, and I'll be fine."
He nodded as if to dismiss her, but she continued to stand there quizzically.
"What is it?" he finally asked, cocking his head to one side.
"You, er, you don't sound as though you're from here," she said hesitantly.
"My, my," Hogan retorted with a grin, "that sounds like a pickup line to me if I ever heard one."
Her face went cold once more, fixing him with an irritated glare. "I told you before, I don't date the customers."
"That's okay, honey," replied Hogan, his grin blossoming to lecherous proportions. "What I had in mind, I wouldn't exactly call dating."
He placed one hand suggestively on a curvaceous hip and tried steering her in the direction of his lap. She deftly slipped from his grasp, lashing out with one hand to deliver a resounding slap. Despite the numbing effects of the alcohol, Hogan noticed the blow seemed designed to create more noise than actual hurt--her hand was cupped as it made contact. He doubted there was even a mark left on his cheek, although the sound had effectively startled him and the few patrons who were still present.
She turned angrily on her heel and retreated to the bar. Hogan chuckled to himself. It didn't matter what the nationality, there was no figuring dames.
He poured himself another shot glass of whiskey, as the stranger called the waitress back to his table. She approached the gentleman, her hazel eyes inquiring, but guarded. Hogan couldn't hear what the man said, but didn't miss the quick glance she fired to his table before subtly shifting her body to block his view. Even if he could lip-read in German, that would certainly prevent him from observing what they were saying, he noted with annoyance.
"Bitte?" the waitress asked. She noticed the glass of wine before him was still untouched.
"Fraulein," the gentleman said, "I was just wondering who your friend is over there." He inclined his head slightly in the direction of Hogan's table.
The waitress looked over her shoulder and then quickly turned back, shifting her body to one side to conceal their conversation.
"He's not a friend," she said icily. "He's just some customer who's had too much to drink and tried to get fresh with me."
"I don't recall seeing him around before. Do you know who he is?" he asked with curiosity.
"No, and I don't care. If you're so interested, why don't you go ask him," she replied haughtily.
His next move caught her completely off-guard. She was leaning on her hands on the edge of the table to take some weight off her aching feet, when the stranger's arm darted out with serpentine quickness, pinning one hand to the table's surface. The suddenness of his gesture startled her, but the vise-like strength he employed kept her from recoiling and truly frightened her.
"Ouch," she said tensely under her breath, "you're hurting me."
"You haven't even begun to know the meaning of the word hurt."
He applied even more crushing force against the fragile bones and tendons of the back of her hand. She bit her lip to keep from crying out.
"What do you want from me?" she asked, her breath coming in short gasps.
"I want you to find out whatever you can about the man at that table. If you insist on being stubborn, I could make things very unpleasant for you." The thin, bloodless lips curled into an artificial smile before he released her hand.
Shaken, she picked up her empty tray from the table.
"Ja...jawohl," she stuttered, turning away. Hogan glanced up, as she passed by his table. The color had drained from her face, and she seemed to be trembling slightly. He downed the rest of his beer and shrugged indifferently to himself. What did it matter to him if she'd been upset by her clearly private tête-a-tête with the stranger? Dropping some Reichsmarks on the table, he stood, wavering slightly, and made his way out of the bar, his head bowed and coat pulled tight around him against the bitter wind.
***
The biting wind threatened to disperse the playing cards atop the table, as the barracks door suddenly blew open, admitting a grimy, unshaven prisoner. The card players scarcely gave him a glance. Ignoring them in turn, Braden sauntered across the room to his bunk and leaned against the frame, stretching his arms in an exaggerated yawn that broke the chilly silence.
"I don't know what would feel better right now--to sleep for twenty-four hours or grab a shower and shave first," he weighed aloud, rubbing red-rimmed eyes with his fists. His weary face was heavily forested with two-weeks' worth of beard, and he absently scratched the growth while gazing around the barracks.
"So, did you guys miss me?" he asked with a sneer to no one in particular.
Newkirk broke his concentration from a less-than-promising hand and raised his eyes in an aggravated look.
"Here now, did you go somewhere?" he said acidly. Turning to the others, he asked, "Why didn't someone tell me he'd been away? I might've had LeBeau here bake a cake for his homecoming."
Carter chuckled. "Yeah, we missed you, Braden," he added sarcastically. "No one's lost their shirt in a card game since you've been in the cooler."
Braden grunted his retort and turned to rummage through a footlocker, retrieving his towel and shaving kit. He slung the towel over one shoulder and picked up the kit bag before ambling toward the door. Taking an inventory of the players around the table, he suddenly noted Hogan's absence.
"So, where's the old man?" he asked with a sniff. Braden hooked his thumb toward the private room at the end of the barracks. "Taking an afternoon snooze, I suppose?" The men around the table glanced knowingly at each other, but didn't give him the satisfaction of a response.
He curiously watched their silent exchange. "What, don't tell me he pulled a longer stretch in the cooler than I did?" His face broke out in a huge grin, as he clapped Kinch resoundingly on the back and guffawed in laughter. "Why, that old marshmallow Klink really showed some spine for a change!"
Kinch coolly laid down his cards before looking up crossly at the grinning non-comm. "No, Braden, he didn't pull a stretch in the cooler for that fight you provoked with another one of your smart remarks."
Braden's face darkened. "What?! You mean that sonuvabitch got off scot free without any punishment?" He angrily smacked one end of his towel against the table, scattering the deck of cards.
Kinch slowly stood up, rigidly holding out one arm to restrain Newkirk from vaulting across the table. He spoke tersely, his dark eyes blazing, as he turned toward Braden.
"Listen up good, Braden, because we're only going to go over this one time. If you ever refer to our former CO again it had better be as Colonel Hogan, got it?"
Kinch continued before Braden could voice the question reflected in his eyes.
"The Colonel didn't get a stretch in solitary, because instead General Burkhalter ordered him transferred to Dachau."
Braden gaped in disbelief. "Dachau? You're joking, right?" He turned to look at the other men glaring at him from around the table.
"I wouldn't joke about something like that. Fortunately, he managed to knock out his guard en route and escape."
The surly POW snorted in disgust. "Oh yeah, and I suppose now he's back home living it up?"
LeBeau spoke up, his voice quiet. "Au contraire. He can't go back because of the charges brought against him. He's somewhere out there on his own."
"He can't even use the same escape network he helped to create because everybody in the underground's been told to look out for him." Carter threw down his cards in disgust.
Braden slung the towel over his shoulder. "Yeah, well, I still say he's better off than we are here, so I wouldn't feel all broken up over it, if I were you."
He stepped to the door. "Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I'm going to try and shower off this grime. With one less prisoner in camp, maybe I'll get lucky and find some hot water for a change."
No one returned his smirk, as the door slammed shut behind him.
Chapter Ten
Hogan sat at his usual table, drumming his fingers anxiously against its surface. It had been several hours since he'd had a drink, and the effects were beginning to wear off. The waitress approached him, looking as tired as the night before.
"Bitte?" she asked in a voice monotoned with fatigue and apathy. She stood before him, her eyes straying to other parts of the room, as she shifted impatiently from one foot to the other.
"Same as usual, Liebchen." He tried to force some cheeriness into his voice.
She looked at him with a bemused expression. "And that would be...?"
"Hmm, I thought I made more of an impression on you than that," he said flirtatiously. She didn't even crack a smile. Deflated, he said glumly, "Beer and a whiskey." He'd half hoped she might be in a friendlier mood this evening, but that was evidently not the case.
She returned momentarily with his order and set it before him.
"You know, I don't think I remember your name," Hogan inquired.
"That's probably because I didn't tell you my name," she said curtly.
"Ah, well, I'll forgive the oversight this time." He summoned one of his warm, attractive smiles for her. "So, just what is your name?"
She paused for a few moments, assessing the searching look in his eyes. Beneath the transparent flirtatiousness, he seemed genuinely desperate for companionship. She had to admit there was something about him...
"Leisa," she said begrudgingly. "Leisa Engel. And you seem to have neglected to mention yours, Herr...?"
"Herr Rudolf Jäger, but let's not be so formal, hmm?" Hogan's smile broadened. "Please call me Rudy."
He held up a large brass fob dangling a key from the other end.
"Here," he said, waving the fob slightly, "this is the key to my flat in case you'd like to visit me later. Konigstrasse 39, second level."
She took the key and studied it in the palm of her hand. What could possibly have made her think this man was any different from all the others?
"Is that so?" she remarked. "How thoughtful." She swung the fob over the stein of beer, letting it slip from her fingers into the foamy brew. "Tsk, tsk," she clucked with feigned disappointment and turned on her heels. "Happy hunting, Herr Jäger."
Hogan thought he detected a hint of a smile at the corner of her mouth. At least she'd remembered his name. He'd have to keep working on her, he thought, his face furrowing in a frown, as he dipped into the stein.
He lifted the key, dripping foam, as the door opened with a whoosh, the wind whipping inside the bar. Several patrons nearest the entrance voiced protests, but silenced their complaints, noticeably shrinking back in fear, as the dark-haired man in the doorway looked sternly in their direction. He proceeded to an opposite corner of the room and shed his overcoat, shaking off the snow. Hogan lifted his beer, pretending not to notice when Leisa glanced his way first before approaching the gentleman.
Leisa set her tray on the table and ran a cloth around the already clean surface.
"Guten abend, mein Herr."
"Abend, Fraulein."
"And what would you care to drink this evening?" she asked.
"I think I will have a schnapps to take away some of this chill."
She nodded and began to head toward the bar.
"Just a moment, don't be in such a hurry," he commanded. She froze and returned to the table, a questioning look in her face that she hoped concealed the fear she felt.
"Did you obtain the information I asked for?"
Leisa tried licking her lips and found her mouth dry. "Er, what was that, mein Herr?"
"Come now, you remember," he said, his voice oily, but the threat underlying it still apparent. "Let's not play games, shall we? I don't have time for such nonsense."
She swallowed hard. "Ja, ja, I'm sorry, I'm just a bit tired this evening." Brushing back some stray strands of hair, she glanced over one shoulder. Jäger seemed preoccupied with pouring himself another drink. She turned back to the tall stranger, positioning herself so Jäger would be unable to monitor their conversation.
"His name is Rudolf Jäger, he lives at Konigstrasse 39, second level." Leisa cleared her throat before continuing. "Karl said he deals in the black market. Liquor, cigarettes, wristwatches, whatever you need, he can get it." She paused, looking uncertain. "Is that what you wanted?"
"That will do very nicely for now, my dear," he said evenly. Leisa appeared momentarily relieved. "However, I want you to keep an eye on him. Let me know if he seems to be up to anything other than his black market dealings. Get to know him as well as a pretty thing like you can, hmm?"
Leisa tossed her head. "I can't stand him," she said huffily.
"I don't care if you like him or not, I want you to keep an eye on him for me. I'm not paying you to fall in love with him. Verstehen Sie?"
"Ja...jawohl, mein Herr, I understand." She nodded acquiescently before turning to head back to the bar.
"Not so quickly."
Leisa stopped in her tracks. Oh dear, just when she thought she'd finally be free of this horrid man.
"Bitte?" she meekly inquired.
"What is Herr Jäger drinking this evening?"
"What he usually drinks--whiskey and beer."
The gentleman pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Hmm, bring me a tall glass of whiskey."
Leisa appeared confused. "Do you want that instead of the schnapps?"
"The schnapps is for me, and the whiskey is for Herr Jäger, but just bring them both to my table, if you will, my dear."
Leisa nodded mutely, a relieved look on her face, as he dismissed her with a wave of his hand. She returned a moment later with the drinks, reaching into her skirt pocket to make change for the large denomination note he handed her.
"No, no change is necessary, my dear," he said with cloying sweetness. "You may keep that for your efforts."
"Ja, ja," Leisa said in amazement. "Danke schoen, mein Herr."
"One more thing," he said, as she turned to leave. She halted, slowly turning back to face him, the tension etched on her face. "I'd like you to ask Herr Jäger to join me at my table."
She nodded hesitantly and, picking up her tray, shakily made her way across the room. Hogan lifted his eyes questioningly, when she neared his table. Leisa stood before him, her face curiously strained.
"The gentleman at the table over there," she inclined her head, "would like you to join him for a drink."
Hogan peered around her. The dark-haired stranger with the goatee was the only patron in that direction. Hogan lifted his glass disinterestedly, turning his gaze back toward the waitress.
"Tell him I prefer to drink alone."
Leisa looked at him with surprise, her lips parting slightly, as though about to say something, but then she firmly set her mouth once more, thinking better of it. She returned to the stranger's table to relay Jäger's response. Hogan noticed her back stiffen. After a few moments, the gentleman rose and, picking up the glasses from the table, leisurely crossed the room.
"Herr Jäger?" the gentleman inquired in a civil tone.
Hogan glared at him.
"Maybe. What's it to you?" he grumbled, his tone distinctly unfriendly.
One eyebrow arched over a cold, steel-gray eye, as he slowly pulled out the chair opposite Hogan and sat down, sliding the glass of whiskey toward him. There was an air of detached curiosity that failed to completely mask the reserved malevolence in his approach.
"I'd like to buy you a drink."
Hogan hungrily eyed the tall glass for a moment, filled nearly to the brim, and then looked directly at the stranger. "No thanks. My mother told me never to drink with strangers."
The gentleman's head suddenly tilted upwards, his bloodless lips curling back. Although some might call the noise that emerged laughter, Hogan shivered imperceptibly at the chilling sound.
"Of course, please excuse my lapse in manners. I am Herr Kronbach, Albert Kronbach." It was said in the manner of a man who is used to some sign of recognition at the mention of his name. A response probably not characterized by feelings of warmth or joy, Hogan surmised.
"I see." He continued to meet the man's icy stare. "Well, you apparently already know my name."
"I was wondering if you might be new to town. I don't recall seeing you here before."
Hogan paused before carefully answering. "You could say I'm just passing through."
"Well, while you're in town, I have a proposition for you. I understand you have a knack for obtaining, shall we say, certain articles of merchandise that are hard to find these days?"
Hogan's eyes narrowed. "Maybe I do and maybe I don't. What are you looking for?"
Kronbach chuckled. "No, my friend, you misunderstand. I'm not in need of anything myself. Rather, I'd like to propose a partnership. I may be able to help you expand the success of your business enterprise, hmm?"
"I don't believe in partnerships," Hogan said gruffly. "They remind me too much of marriage." He lifted the glass of whiskey and drained half of it in one gulp, shuddering as the liquid burned its way down his throat.
Kronbach persisted, leaning forward slightly and lowering his voice. "You might want to reconsider, Herr Jäger. I think I should tell you that it very much would be in your best interests to accept my offer." A small, dangerous smile appeared on his thin lips.
Hogan looked intently at him. "Look, I don't care who the hell you are, I told you, I'm not interested. I work only for myself. I've got no boss, no one to report to, and that's the way I like it. Next time you want to consider a business investment, why don't you try the stock exchange? I hear it might be big some day."
Hogan rose slowly from the table, his eyes riveted on Kronbach. He drained the rest of the glass, then reached into his pocket and extracted several bills, tossing them on the table.
"There, just so you don't think there's any obligation between us."
Hogan picked up his glass of beer and walked unhurriedly to a table at the opposite side of the Hofbrau, where he deposited himself in a chair. He concentrated on pouring another shot of whiskey, refusing to return the menacing stare aimed at him from across the room.
Leisa's eyes widened from her observation post at the bar. She hoped Jäger knew what he was doing. Whatever he'd said had clearly made Kronbach angry, and that wasn't the effect most people wanted to attain in their dealings with the man. She held her breath as Kronbach, his mouth set in anger and nostrils flaring, stood from the table. He deliberately put on his overcoat, his eyes locked in the direction of Jäger's table.
She hoped there wouldn't be a confrontation. Karl had stepped out momentarily to check some inventory in the cellar, and she wouldn't have anyone to turn to for help in breaking up a fight. With a sigh of relief, she watched as Kronbach began to make his way across the room and then abruptly angled for the door, storming out into the blustery night.
Her hands shaking, Leisa picked up her tray and a towel and proceeded hesitantly to Jäger's table. She looked cautiously around the nearly empty room. Only a few patrons remained, and they didn't seem to have noticed the incipient confrontation. Jäger's head was bowed, his face cloaked in a dark scowl. Leisa dropped her towel onto the table and pretended to wipe up an imaginary spill from its surface. Leaning over, she spoke in a low voice, her eyes darting nervously toward the door.
"Look, I'm not trying to interfere, but I think you should know the fellow you were talking with is not the sort of man you want to cross."
Hogan lifted his head in surprise and then resumed his frown. "If I want advice, I'll ask for it," he said harshly. He looked at her suspiciously. "What's it to you, anyway?"
Her tone changed to pleading. "Look, don't annoy him, just go along with whatever he wants, okay?"
Hogan shrugged. "What can he do to me?"
Her eyes dark with fear, she leaned closer and hoarsely whispered, "Geheime Staats Polizei."
Not seeing any reaction from him, she rolled her eyes in exasperation and hissed intently, "Gestapo, Dummkopf."
Hogan snorted. "I don't intend to be around here long enough for anyone to catch up with me, especially the Gestapo."
Leisa looked at him in amazement and then shrugged and turned away. This man is so incredibly stubborn, she thought. This is going to be more difficult an assignment than I'd thought.
Hogan sat slumped at the table, staring at the bottle before him. He poured another drink and halfheartedly lifted the glass. What could Kronbach do, he wondered? After being threatened with transfer to Dachau, anything else would be mild by comparison. Hogan recalled the prison he'd passed on the outskirts of Hamburg. One day while walking nearby, he'd heard the pitiful screams and moans drifting over its high stone walls. The effects of the sort of treatment he would have been subjected to, if he'd not made his escape.
He brushed away the disturbing memory and looked around the Hofbrau. The place was nearly deserted. Between the late hour and wintry conditions, few had bothered to venture out. Hogan was just as glad for the solitude. Something about Kronbach thoroughly irritated him. He had a feeling he'd be drinking more than usual this evening as a result. In addition to keeping at bay the recall of events that brought him to this predicament, he now would have to also subdue the memory of this recent unpleasant encounter. Hogan shuddered and lifted his glass once more. All he wanted was to transform himself to the point of barely conscious alcoholic numbness, so he wouldn't have to deal with the world and its problems.
Problems. He allowed himself to mentally drift back to Stalag 13 and realized it felt a long time since he'd been relieved of the pressures of command. He wondered how the men were getting on without him, but was still sentient enough that he didn't want to pursue that psychological path and the feelings it might trigger. His head drooped slightly. It was too late--the flood of emotions began, sweeping over him in tides of regret. He'd get by somehow--he only hoped his men would make it through as well without him.
Chapter Eleven
A match flame sparked suddenly in the dark street, briefly illuminating a man's sharply pointed visage. Kronbach inhaled deeply on the cigarette, pacing furiously back and forth. He was not used to being dealt with in that manner. Two men emerged from the bar, pulling up their collars against the snow that had once again begun to fall. They were rough-looking men, one short and thickset, with a boxer's face and body, the other tall, a lantern jaw his only distinguishing feature. They stopped before him, clearly noting his still seething anger.
"Did you see the man at that table?" Kronbach asked, gesturing toward the window of the Hofbrau.
"Jawohl, Herr Major."
"His name is Jäger."
"Herr Jäger did not seem to appreciate the generosity of your offer."
Kronbach grunted in response. "I expect he will come to realize he made a serious mistake."
"You want us to dispose of him for you, Herr Major?" the taller man asked.
Kronbach pursed his lips thoughtfully and then took another deep pull on his cigarette, the brightening tip casting an ominous red glow across his face.
"No, Hermann, not immediately. This Jäger might appear to be a worthless drunk, but he may be of use to us, at least for a short while."
The shorter of the two men looked disappointed and longingly fingered a heavy switchblade concealed in his pocket. Kronbach nodded understandingly, patting him on the shoulder.
"Don't worry, Gunther. You will have your chance eventually. For now I want you two to teach Jäger a lesson in business etiquette. Make him understand he should treat his future partner with better manners. But do not kill him. Not yet. Understood?"
Hermann signaled his comprehension. Gunther merely stood there, sullen and silent.
"Understood, Gunther?" Kronbach repeated more insistently.
The shorter man nodded reluctantly.
"Good. He should be departing before long, and then you'll have your opportunity."
"But what if he doesn't want to listen to, er, reason?" Hermann asked.
The Gestapo major peered at the lone patron seated inside the bar. "I think our friend has a particular Achilles heel that we will find easy enough to exploit."
Kronbach continued to watch the solitary figure through the window. Even if Jäger changed his attitude after this evening, which he expected he would, his drinking would still present a problem. For now, Kronbach was temporarily willing to tolerate the behavior. He would see what he could use him for, drain him for all he was worth, and then dispose of him, permanently. In the meantime, he might prove quite useful in a number of ways, Kronbach thought, as he absently rubbed the side of his pointed nose.
***
Hogan sat slumped over the table, his head resting on his forearms. He'd half hoped he'd drink enough to pass out, but he hadn't been successful, even though he'd given it one hell of a try. The bottle of whiskey before him was nearly empty, and still he clung to consciousness. He wanted to have it all fade from his awareness, to drift away and be able to pass a few hours painlessly in the undisturbed stupor of intoxication, but tonight for whatever reason such refuge eluded him.
He jerked up suddenly at the sensation of a hand on his shoulder. It was only Leisa. The bar had emptied out, and he was the last remaining customer. The waitress stood there looking at him, a concerned expression on her face. He shook his head to try and clear the haze, momentarily setting the room spinning. Even though he'd been unable to render himself unconscious with drink, he still hadn't remained immune to its effects.
"Entschuldigen Sie, bitte," Leisa said hesitantly. She was holding a broom in one hand and appeared ready to close up.
Hogan grimaced. "I know, I know. Yer tryin' t'close an' ya wan' me outta here. All right, ya don' hafta ask twice. I can find m'own way out, thank you v'ry much." Hogan came unsteadily to his feet, thrusting his chest out while making his little speech. He half hoped the gesture would provide more dignity than his slurred voice lent, as he turned to aim shakily for the door.
Leisa watched him go and realized that in a way she felt sorry for Jäger. She had to admit beneath the disheveled appearance, he was a handsome man. But she couldn't afford to get involved with him. Not if she was to do the job they'd instructed her to do. Picking up the bills he'd left on the table, she saw him lurch for the exit and was amazed that he was able to navigate his way up the few steps to street level without stumbling over his unsteady feet. She turned back with a sigh, beginning to sweep the floor of the now empty Hofbrau.
Hogan stood at the top of the stairs, swaying as he bent his head back and gazed up at the night sky. He remained that way for what felt like a long time, breathing in the crisp evening air laden with the scent of fresh snow. It was only after several fat, wet flakes deposited on his upturned face that he realized it was still coming down heavily. He shivered, clumsily wiping the moistness from his face, before turning his coat collar up and beginning to stagger down the darkened street.
Turning left, he entered an alleyway that served as a shortcut to his flat. His hands were shoved in the pockets of his overcoat to keep them warm and head was bowed, as he stumbled along. He knew the way by rote and didn't need to look up to follow the path.
Suddenly, he sensed something blocking his way. Hogan brought himself up short, making out a dark figure directly in front of him. Muttering an apology, he stepped to one side. The man, his face hooded by the brim of a fedora pulled low over his eyes, stepped in the same direction.
Hogan chuckled. "Hey, if yer lookin' for a dance partner, ya got th' wrong guy. I'm def'nitely not yer type," he mumbled, as he stepped aside once more. Alarms began to go off in his head, as the man parroted him.
Footsteps from behind drew his attention, and he turned to see another figure approaching him from the rear. Had he been sober, he probably could have taken the two of them, but in his present state, he knew he was at a distinct disadvantage.
"We've got the right guy alright. We want to talk with you about your refusal of Herr Kronbach's business offer."
Hogan spread his feet a bit wider to steady himself and looked warily at the shadowed figure in front of him.
"Oh, is tha' wha' this 's about? Lookit, I tol' your frien' Kronbach I'm not int'rested in workin' with him. If he's gotta complaint, tell 'im to take it to th' better business bureau."
Hogan moved forward to try and pass by, but a hand thrust against his chest pushed him roughly back.
"I think we could persuade you to change your mind."
The first man looked over Hogan's shoulders and nodded to his partner. As Hogan tried to glance back, he found his arms tightly grabbed from behind. He turned forward, his head connecting with a fist that snapped it to the left. A second punch jerked him in the opposite direction and immediately filled his mouth with blood. Hogan struggled to free himself, but his arms were only gripped more forcefully, threatening to wrench his shoulders from their sockets. A painful series of blows to his ribs and abdomen left him gasping to breathe. His body involuntarily willed him to double over, but the restraints from behind kept him firmly upright.
In desperation, Hogan brought his heel sharply back, forcing a curse, as the man behind him grabbed his knee in pain. Quickly taking advantage of his momentary release, Hogan stumbled forward, throwing his arms out as though to recover his balance. Instead, he grasped the taller man firmly by the shoulders and sprang upward, the crown of his head smashing into his assailant's nose. The man moaned in pain, reeling backwards, as he brought his hands to his face to try and stem the blood pouring from the broken nose.
Hogan stood tottering over him, when he heard a metallic click from behind. Out of the corner of one eye he caught a glint of steel arcing downward. Instinctively, his right hand rose as a shield, its fingers curling reflexively around the double-edged blade, as the sharp knife sliced deeply through fleshy pads. Groaning in agony, Hogan hastily pulled his hand back and clutched it to his chest, quickly turning the shirt crimson.
"Put that away," the first man hissed, wiping ineffectually at his bloodied face. "You know what we were told. He's only to be taught a lesson."
Hogan bent over and grasped his bleeding hand, as the snow beneath him began to darken with a wet stain.
The man with the switchblade snapped it shut in disgust and then palmed it as a makeshift set of brass knuckles. He thrust forward, viciously spearing his victim. A wave of nausea swept over Hogan, while one kidney seemed to erupt in a rippling current of pain. His body collapsed, dropping him to his knees. As he leaned forward helplessly, his forehead against the cold, wet ground, the first few uncontrollable spasms began. The mostly liquid sustenance he'd taken in that day was vomited before him, the contents mixing with the bloodied snow.
Through his haze, Hogan thought he heard the sounds of feet scrambling around him. Were more wolves coming to join the pack, sensing an easy kill, he wondered?
He felt a hand on his shoulder and tiredly shook his aching head.
"Enough already, y'got th' point across," he muttered, trying to draw himself upright.
"Mein Gott, what did they do to you?" a woman's voice answered softly. Still staggered, Hogan looked up into a pair of concerned hazel eyes. Leisa quickly sucked in her breath, spotting the bloodstained shirt. Am I too late? She worriedly pulled his hand away, afraid she'd find a protruding knife. The shirt, although soaked with red, was intact. She glanced down at his moist, sticky hand. The inner surface of his fingers and palm were deeply cut. Leisa quickly removed the kerchief covering her head, wrapping it tightly around his hand and tying it in a knot to control the bleeding.
"Wait here," she said urgently, straightening herself up with a grunt. Without answering, Hogan crumpled forward into the snow, another spasm of nausea overtaking him.
Leisa returned in the direction from which she'd come, stopping before the door to the Hofbrau. She peered through a side window, hoping desperately to find Karl there. Shakily opening the door with a key, she entered the darkened bar. A light was still on, and she breathed a sigh of relief, as she hurried to a rear room.
"Karl," she called out anxiously. "Karl!" A balding man with his sleeves rolled up appeared in the doorway, a curious look on his face.
"What is it, Leisa?" Karl stood there, wiping his hands on the apron tied around his waist. "I thought you left already."
"I did, but had to come back for some bandages. I found--" Leisa halted, then peered around with a frightened look. "Is anyone back there with you?" she asked hesitantly.
"No, you can relax, there's no one here." Karl frowned. "What's the matter, Leisa? You look as white as a ghost."
"That man, Jäger, is in the alley out back. He's been beaten, and his hand is badly cut. I'll need some bandages."
Karl shook his head angrily. "Sounds like Kronbach and his henchmen."
Leisa nodded, her face set in disappointment. "I never should have let him go in the state he was in..."
"Don't blame yourself. You're doing a fine job. You can't be there to keep an eye on him all the time," Karl retorted, as he headed toward a back room.
He returned a moment later, reappearing with a box of first aid supplies. "Do you think I should contact the control section to let them know what has happened?"
"That's not necessary," said Leisa, as she took the box from him. "They'll just want to call things off prematurely--I have a feeling there is much more he has yet to do."
Leisa filled her purse with supplies and paused to look up. "Don't worry, I'll be careful." She pulled her coat around her once more and closed up the box, handing it back.
"Ja, alright then."
Karl walked her to the door, locking it behind her, as she hurried up the steps. He shook his head. He hoped she knew what she was getting herself into. This assignment was quickly turning into far more than any of them had ever expected.
Leisa rounded the corner and glanced into the darkened alley to find it empty. She quickened her steps, reaching the bloodstained snow and feeling herself begin to panic. What if Kronbach's men had come back for Jäger and taken him off somewhere to finish the job? Had she made a mistake by leaving him?
She looked around anxiously, when her attention was drawn by a low moan. Holding her breath, she walked slowly toward one side of the alley. As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she recognized a figure slumped in a doorway. She hurried forward, kneeling before him and gently brushing back a dark shock of damp hair from his forehead. He looked up at her with confused, dazed eyes.
"Whatcha doin' here?" he mumbled suspiciously. "Tryin' to put th' finishin' touches on wha' yer friends started?" He gruffly cast off her hand from his shoulder, while he struggled to stand up, leaning heavily against the doorframe for balance.
Leisa looked away guiltily. "No. I didn't know they were going to do this to you. I...I had nothing to do with this. You have to believe me."
"Wunderbar. You had nothin' t'do with this. So, why're ya here? Doncha have a Party meetin' or somethin' t'go to?"
Leisa set her jaw firmly. "Look, you need some help. All I'm going to do is get you back to your flat. That's it. Okay?"
Hogan made no further protests. He knew he was too incapacitated to make it back safely on his own. Reluctantly, he put his good arm around Leisa's shoulders. She reached around him to encircle his waist, and they began to slowly wind their way through the snow-covered streets.