Chapter Fifteen
By all appearances, Kronbach's mood had returned to normal the following evening. Leisa thought she even heard him humming a brief tune, while he waited patiently for Jäger to show up. She placed drinks before the two men after he arrived; pretending to ignore the wink Jäger gave her.
Reaching inside his coat pocket, Kronbach withdrew a slip of paper and slid it across the table.
"Do you think you can get these items?"
Hogan looked at the list. "It depends. How quickly do you need all this?"
"What about one week? Can you manage that?"
Hogan made some mental calculations, looking over the list carefully. "Let's make it three days from now. That's Christmas Eve. Should make a nice present for someone, hmm?"
Kronbach's eyebrows lifted in surprise. He had had some doubts as to whether Jäger would be able to deliver any of the items.
"Very nice, indeed." He lifted his drink and eyed Jäger intently over the rim, draining the glass slowly. "So, my friend, what exactly persuaded you to change your mind about our little endeavor?"
Hogan coughed. "Let's just say I need to liquidate some of my inventory. Business hasn't been the best, and I'm thinking of relocating, maybe quite soon."
"I see. Well, perhaps my associates and I can help you turn your business around." Kronbach smiled thinly, as Hogan stood from the table.
"Yeah, maybe. Uh, I suppose I'd better get busy, if I'm to collect all of this for you. Where do you want me to deliver it?"
"Just come to my office when you have it ready. Here's the address." Kronbach handed him another slip of paper.
Hogan winced. "Ah, yes, one of my favorite establishments. Gestapo Headquarters. I don't suppose you'd like a reduced price option by skipping the delivery charges and picking up the goods yourself, hmm?"
Kronbach chuckled. "You have nothing to worry about. Just tell the officer at the front desk you are there to see me. I'll make sure he knows what to do."
Hogan looked at Kronbach carefully for several moments. "All right. See you in three days." He reached into his pocket for some currency.
"Ach, there's no need for that. I've arranged with Karl to cover the bar bill for you. Consider it a signing bonus as part of our little merger, eh?"
"Well, that's unexpectedly generous of you, Herr Kronbach." Hogan raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Danke sehr."
"Nichts zu danken, Herr Jäger. See you in three days."
"Three days. Right." Hogan reached out with his left hand to shake Kronbach's, before he turned to leave. As he passed through the room on his way out, he glanced at Leisa. He wasn't sure, but thought he saw a look of critical disapproval on her face.
Kronbach sat at the table, deep in thought, as two men approached from across the room. Reaching his table, the taller of the two cleared his throat.
"Ah, Hermann," Kronbach said, looking up. "I presume you noticed the change in Jäger's attitude?"
"Ja. But, I still don't trust him."
"Neither do I, Hermann, but for now he may be of use to us."
"I don't understand, Herr Major," the shorter man spoke up. "Why would you even consider going into business with this Jäger in the first place? Why don't we just follow him to where he keeps his goods and then take what he has?"
"Patience, Gunther, patience," Kronbach said with a smile. "This arrangement is only temporary. Jäger is not likely to have all of his merchandise in one place. We must first learn as much about his little operation as possible. Once we know who are his suppliers, we will have what we need to run things without him."
"And then?" Gunther asked with a wistful smile.
"And then, we get rid of him. Permanently."
The short man vigorously nodded his agreement.
"In the meantime, we will be taking our first delivery from Jäger three days from now. I think we'll be more than ready for him, eh?"
Gunther sneered evilly. "We certainly will."
***
"Any news, Kinch?" Carter scanned his friend's face, as he stepped from the ladder and clambered over the lower bunk rails.
The communicator shook his head. "Nothing."
He swung one long leg over a bench and wearily rested his elbows on the rough wooden table in the middle of their barracks.
LeBeau handed him a steaming mug of ersatz coffee.
"Thanks, LeBeau, smells almost as good as mom used to make." He took a sip and grimaced. "Maybe better. How'd you manage to capture that special taste of the Detroit public water system?"
"Comment?"
"Never mind," Kinch replied with a smile to the Frenchman's puzzled expression. "Oh, I almost forgot, we did get a message from London."
He reached inside his field jacket to retrieve some blue notepaper.
Newkirk rolled over on his upper bunk and peered down at the others grouped around the table. "Did they find Colonel Hogan?" he asked expectantly.
"Nope, sorry, still no word on the Colonel, although they've got every underground member on the continent looking for him. He must've holed up somewhere good, that's all I can figure."
He handed the paper across the table to Carter, who scanned the brief message.
"Say, they're giving us the holidays off!" Carter said in surprise.
"Huh?" Newkirk reached down and grabbed the paper from Carter's hand.
"London wants us to continue to stand down for now. Guess they're givin' us Christmas and New Year's off for a change. Some break, eh?"
"Geez, Kinch, when are they going to make a decision?" Carter's face mirrored the exasperation in his voice.
"Beats me." Kinch shrugged powerful shoulders inside his olive drab field jacket. "Now I know how frustrated the Colonel used to feel when he'd be waiting to hear back from them on something important."
"Gaw," Newkirk exclaimed in exasperation. "They're goin' to make us rot here in this hole 'til they figure out what to do with us!"
He hopped from his bunk and stalked across the room to retrieve a handful of darts adorning a circular bulls-eye on one wall of their barracks. Backing up several paces, he took careful aim. The dart barely pierced the furthest edge of the outermost ring.
"Bloody marvelous. Maybe if we're really good chaps, they'll air-drop us some plum pudding for a Christmas feast, eh?"
He angrily hurled another dart. The feathered shaft missed well wide of its mark. Newkirk glared at where it stuck, still quivering, in the exact center of a blue RAF garrison cap cupped over one corner of a wooden bunk frame.
"Double bloody marvelous."
Chapter Sixteen
Hogan checked his watch again, as he walked down Kirchestrasse a second time. He didn't want to be too early, but at the same time was anxious to get this over with. For some reason, he didn't have a good feeling about the impending appointment and had been fighting his unease all day. But, it was too late to turn back now.
His head bowed in thought, Hogan approached an unmarked building at the end of the street and began to trudge up the wide stone steps worn smooth by the years. Hogan shuddered. How many unfortunates had been dragged over their surface for them to appear so polished? He pushed the thought away, pausing for a moment before the front entrance, as though considering whether to turn away. Reluctantly, he took hold of the iron ring, long ago rusted into the wood, and tugged on the heavy door. A kerchiefed charwoman, one hand closed around the inner door handle, stumbled out. She struggled momentarily to regain her balance, dirty water from her pail sloshing onto the stone steps and splattering his shoes.
"Ach! Verzeihung, mein Herr! Please forgive my clumsiness."
Hogan, in a foul mood to begin with, glared at her without saying a word. She scurried quickly past him to heave the water into the gutter and then slipped silently back inside, where he waited before a tall reception desk. It reminded him of the imposing booking benches in the precinct houses back home, and he half expected to see a ruddy-faced sergeant named O'Malley behind the desk. The illusion was immediately dispelled when a trim, bespectacled young man in black uniform, his collar appointed with the twin silver flashes of the SS, peered down at him.
"Ja?" he asked with a sneer, scrutinizing Hogan's worn suit and unshaven face.
Hogan anxiously glanced around. The only other individual present was the charwoman, her back turned as she busied herself with her mops and rags in one corner of the foyer.
"I, uh, I'm here to see Major Kronbach."
"What for?" The sneer was replaced by a look of inquisitiveness at the mention of Kronbach's name.
Hogan nervously cleared his throat, trying to answer sotto voce. "We, uh, have some business to discuss."
"Is the Herr Major expecting you?"
"Yes. My name is Jäger. I'm a few minutes early for our, uh, appointment."
"Just a moment." The young man raised a telephone to his ear. Hogan couldn't catch the conversation at the other end, but after only a few words the receiver was replaced in its cradle. The desk officer signaled to a second man seated behind him.
"Corporal Schneider, take this individual to Major Kronbach's office. He is an informant working for the Herr Major."
Hogan started at the unexpected public declaration of his business. He quickly glanced around the now empty foyer, breathing a small sigh of relief.
"Jawohl, Herr Captain. Follow me."
Hogan hesitantly followed the young corporal up a narrow flight of stairs and down a long, well-lit corridor lined with closed doors. He'd been in Gestapo buildings before, sometimes even at their invitation, although the circumstances weren't usually very pleasant. He blinked away the memories, while they halted before an unmarked door. The corporal looked at him curiously, signaling for Hogan to enter.
Hogan depressed the handle, and the door slowly swung open. Kronbach was seated in a leather wingback chair, partly concealed behind a dark wooden inlaid desk. Rows of bookshelves, filled with expensive-looking volumes with gold-embossed spines, lined one wall. Kronbach's left hand toyed with a crystal-handled letter opener atop the blotter covering his otherwise pristine desk. Hogan noticed that the other hand was purposely out of view. The fading rays of daylight weakly passing through window sheers lent a pale, grayed quality to his face, like a human mushroom. A mushroom cultivated in the dank bowels of Gestapo interrogation rooms, Hogan reflected.
As he warily entered, the sound of the door creaking closed behind him eerily broke the silence. Hogan whirled to see Gunther, a huge, crooked grin on his face, firmly sliding the bolt in place. Hermann, wearing a more impassive expression on his still-bruised face, stood to the right of the doorway, his arms folded resolutely across his chest.
Kronbach spoke from behind. "Guten tag, Herr Jäger. I believe you all know each other?"
Hogan slowly let out his breath, trying hard to control his reaction. "Ah yes, let me guess. This is Abbott, and," gesturing to the other, "you must be Costello."
Kronbach chuckled.
"Not quite. These are my associates. Hermann," the taller man with crossed arms nodded, "and Gunther."
Hermann smirked derisively in return. "I'd offer to shake hands, but I see you're incapacitated."
"Oh, this?" Hogan replied, as he lifted his hand, still wrapped in thick bandages. "It's nothing, really. Just a hangnail." Turning to Gunther, he asked innocently, "And how's your knee?" Hermann held out one hand to restrain the shorter man beside him.
"Herr Jäger, you will turn back around and have a seat, please."
A wooden chair scraped across the floor, as Hermann kicked it in Hogan's direction. He turned slowly, his eyes quickly scanning the room.
"Or, perhaps, you would prefer to be called Colonel Hogan?" Kronbach's voice remained steady, almost detached, while he raised his arm from beneath the desk, pistol in hand.
Hogan halted momentarily and then continued lowering himself onto the chair, trying to will his body to appear relaxed. He leaned back, hooking one arm over the chair so he was partially facing a set of French doors along the outer wall.
"I'm afraid you've got me confused with someone else. I don't know what you're talking about."
"Come now, my friend, I think we're beyond playing such games with each other, hmm?"
Kronbach kept his eyes on Hogan's strained face and slid open the top desk drawer to extract a black and white photograph, tossing it on the blotter in front of him.
Hogan swallowed hard, recognizing a picture of himself in uniform. He couldn't quite make out where the photo had been taken, but despite the graininess, the figure's identity was clearly discernible.
"Just, uh, just what is that supposed to prove?" Hogan licked his lips.
"By itself, perhaps nothing. However, it was delivered to me by a most special acquaintance of yours, Major Hochstetter."
Hogan quickly glanced to the side. The French doors were probably only one flight above street level. If he timed it right, he could break through the glass and vault over the railing to the street below. He'd managed it once before without putting himself permanently out of action, during a close call with an unfriendly Gestapo interrogator. He nervously smoothed back his dark hair with one hand, turning to face his questioner.
Kronbach continued, his voice level, as he carefully watched the tense figure seated before him. "He paid me a visit a few days ago. It appears a German military vehicle belonging to LuftStalag 13 was abandoned outside town. He seemed convinced, as a result, that you would be found in this area."
Hogan groaned inwardly, bowing his head and wearily rubbing his temples. Damn, he'd hoped the truck was better hidden than that. If it hadn't been for his ankle, he wouldn't have needed to ditch it so close to town.
"Well, I'm waiting for an answer. Just what did you think you were going to accomplish by this little charade, hmm?"
Hogan paused for a moment and then lifted his eyes, sighing resignedly. "Look, I...I didn't have any choice. I was just trying to get through this damned war like everybody else."
He glanced once more at the tall windows. They were three, maybe four, steps away.
"I got dealt a raw deal, that's all." He looked directly at Kronbach, his eyes desperate and, he hoped, convincing.
"I understand you were in the process of being transferred to a special camp near Dachau. Do you know what that would mean?"
Hogan paused, trying to gauge Kronbach's intent. "I'd heard things from other prisoners," he began cautiously. "Word gets around, especially when new men come into camp. I knew if I landed there, my odds weren't good to ever make it out again."
Out of the corner of one eye, he noticed Gunther staring attentively at him.
"I'd say your assessment was quite accurate."
Hogan cleared his throat. "So, uh, just what do you intend to do now?"
"Excellent question. I'll have you know I have carefully weighed the options." Kronbach pensively tapped the letter opener against his chin. "For the moment, I think we'll leave things the way they are. We have a business arrangement, and I intend to honor it."
Hogan appeared to relax slightly, shifting in the chair. "I don't get it. What do you gain from not turning me in?"
Kronbach smiled coldly in return. "Now, now, we both realize I have much to gain from our little enterprise. Let's just say I'm looking to secure my financial future far more reliably than a career with the state ever could, eh?"
Hogan half-smiled in return, relief sweeping over him. "Sure. I guess I can't blame you for that."
"However, it all depends on how well you come through on your end of the bargain. If you do anything to cross me," his voice hardened, as he slowly drew the metal point of the letter opener across the photograph, slicing the image in two, "I will see to it that my determined Gestapo colleague has an opportunity to do what he wants with what is left of you."
He punctuated his threat by raising the letter opener and thrusting it downward, spearing the photograph in place. His eyes shifted from the quivering crystal shaft to Hogan's suddenly colorless face. "Do I make myself clear?"
Hogan coughed uncomfortably. "As clear as the handle on that little toothpick you've got there."
"Fine. Then let's get down to business, shall we? Where are the goods?"
"They're not far from here in a safe place. I, uh, I didn't think you'd exactly want me wheeling them in the front door of your office."
"Quite true and very perceptive on your part." Kronbach's smile quickly erased from his face. "So, where are they?"
Hogan reached inside his jacket, deliberately slowing the motion, as Kronbach lifted the pistol in warning. He pulled out an envelope and tossed it on the desk.
"The address is on the outside of that envelope. Four blocks from here is a dead-end street. At that number is a house with a large storage shed in back. There's a key inside the envelope that will open the padlock on the door. You'll find everything you asked for in there. The homeowner has been paid off and will conveniently be away for the evening, so you'll be able to unload everything in relative privacy. Just make sure you leave the key and padlock inside the shed when you finish. I only arranged for this one-time use."
Kronbach nodded his head thoughtfully in admiration. "Very convenient, indeed."
"The arrangement works well. I don't want people coming by my flat, as it might raise suspicion. There's a very nosy pensioner who runs the place. Plus, keeping the goods in temporary storage reduces the likelihood someone else might steal from me. As soon as they figure out what I'm up to, I've moved on to the next holding area."
"You seem to have everything worked out."
"So far I think I do." Hogan's eyes appeared to flash momentarily.
"However, there's something more we need to discuss."
Hogan looked sharply at Kronbach. There was something in the way he spoke that made Hogan feel he wasn't exactly out of the woods yet.
"We can't very well have others realize who you are, or your dear friend Wolfgang Hochstetter will be on you in an instant and there goes our little operation. I think it is best if we continue to refer to you as Herr Jäger, don't you?"
"Anything to avoid a visit from ol' ferret face. Sorry, I mean Major Hochstetter." Hogan smiled gamely.
"Very good. The pretense for your visits here will be that you are an informant working for me. I also obviously can't have my colleagues aware of our little business venture."
"Sure. I meant to ask you what was going on with that informant stuff when the boy scout in the crisp black shirt directed me here. Makes sense, I suppose."
Kronbach looked over Hogan's shoulder and nodded almost imperceptibly to Gunther who, disappointment clearly showing on his face, begrudgingly retracted the protesting bolt with a snap of his wrist and then stepped aside, glaring at Hogan.
Hogan visibly sighed with relief, rising from the chair to turn toward the door.
"Oh, just a moment."
Hogan halted, his back stiffening. He slowly turned toward Kronbach, toying with the pistol atop his desk.
"Yes?" Hogan tried to keep his voice neutral.
"Before you go I think we need to make one final thing clear."
Kronbach rose slowly from behind his desk, the pistol at his side. He crossed to the French doors, turning the handle and pushing them open to step out onto the narrow balcony.
"Kommen Sie hier," he threw over his shoulder.
Glancing nervously at Hermann and Gunther, Hogan moved slowly across the room, halting cautiously at the threshold.
Kronbach gestured for him to step out onto the balcony. Hogan took a step, and the two men faced each other guardedly in the late afternoon light. Kronbach inclined his head toward the railing. "I thought you might want to take in the view for a moment."
Hogan eased his way toward the edge, his eyes locked on Kronbach's. Reaching out with one hand, he felt for the rail and then glanced quickly over the side, visibly blanching as he did so. The drop below was almost three stories in height.
Kronbach took a step forward, blocking his return.
"It may not have occurred to you that the ground sloped away behind the building, did it? I'd imagine a man would end up in rather pitiful condition if he were to make that disastrous plunge."
Kronbach slowly raised the gun, pointing it chest-height, his voice even.
"Don't make the fatal mistake of underestimating me. You may have found that my colleague Herr Hochstetter is easily duped, but I am not. He gets along through mere zeal; I operate by always being one step ahead of my adversaries. Don't forget that."
His mouth suddenly dry, Hogan swallowed hard, as he nodded his head. Gesturing with the pistol for Hogan to pass by, Kronbach stepped to one side. Hermann and Gunther's eyes followed him, while he slowly exited Kronbach's office in silence.
Deep in thought, Kronbach crossed leisurely to his desk and casually tossed the gun with a thump onto the blotter.
"Hermann, I need you to run an important errand for me."
The taller man stepped forward.
Kronbach reached into the desk drawer and pulled out a piece of paper. He scribbled something on it, holding it out.
"Take this to our friend and ask him to use his network of contacts in London to see what he can find out for us."
Hermann studied the paper and frowned. "You think he still has connections? I thought they finally realized he was working for us."
"Indeed, they did, that's why we had to get him out of England. But there are others who remain hidden in place and have not yet been found out. Our friend will know how to get in touch with them to make the necessary inquiries."
Hermann nodded.
Kronbach sat down heavily in the chair, then stretched out a hand and lightly tapped the upright letter opener piercing the photograph, setting it quivering. He glowered at the bisected image.
"Not yet, but soon," he muttered aloud.
Chapter Seventeen
His hands jammed in his pockets, Hogan trod slowly down the stone steps. Two men passing by purposely crossed the street in avoidance, looks of evident distrust on their faces. One didn't leave Gestapo headquarters unmarked and under one's own power unless one was in collusion with them. He felt as though he wore a scarlet "T" branded across his chest. A modern-day version of a Hester Prynne whose moral corruption, in lieu of adultery, consisted of treason.
Hogan pulled his collar up to shield his face and walked hurriedly away. It was several blocks before he allowed himself to slow down. He absent-mindedly reached into an overcoat pocket and withdrew his flask, now almost empty. As he upturned the container, the cheery sounds and bright lights emerging from a nearby home drew his attention. Looking in either direction down the deserted street, he carefully slid his way along the sidewalk to peer inside a window. He stood there, blinking reflectively as he watched the activities within.
A large, extended family, the young ones decked in their holiday finest, ringed an evergreen tree dominating the front room. Each held a lighted taper, and all merrily raised their voices in familiar-sounding carols, while lighting tiny white candles adorning the tree's branches. The happy, tranquil, domestic scene rooted him in place.
The sight made him long for the companionship of the men he had abandoned. Reminiscing, he wondered if Klink had given in and allowed them to light a bonfire in the compound. They were probably standing out there now in small groups, their insides warmed by the fellowship they shared. Some would be popping corn, while LeBeau would be bustling around serving a special culinary treat he'd managed to craft from the odds and ends he'd carefully horded in preparation for just this celebration.
Hogan's heart ached with loneliness; he'd give anything at that moment to be back with them. He'd thought being finally free would have infused him with a greater sense of elation, but instead he found himself feeling even more confined. His sense of entrapment came not from barbed wire, but by surroundings that made him feel rejected and all too vulnerable. His every attention was focused on survival, mostly hoping to avoid being swept into Hochstetter's net. Despair filled his soul, as he forced himself to turn from the window and continued to walk away. The streets he aimlessly passed looked like pieces of painted stage scenery. Had life become no more than an illusion?
He wandered without direction for several hours, the flask long ago drained. A familiar sound suddenly roused him from his abstraction. The voices of a choir lofted in the late evening air from an old stone church across the street. An elderly parishioner, tardy for the Christmas vigil, scurried inside; from the open door the scent of incense mingling with the clear, jubilant tones wafted toward him. Hogan paused, completely immobile.
Something was tugging at him, something he could not describe, and he stood there, head bowed, as though some internal struggle of conscience were taking place. Raising his head, he looked around self-consciously, but there was no one else in sight. He straightened his tie and tried to smooth his rumpled suit, hoping to make himself look more presentable.
Slowly opening the door, Hogan eased just inside the darkness of the vestibule. His eyes adjusted to the dim light, and he hesitantly made his way up a side aisle, pressed against the wall. The church was nearly full, but Hogan was able to slip past the standing parishioners without attracting attention. He spotted an empty seat at the end of one pew and began to slip in, but caught himself after a neighboring matron looked at him with a disapproving scowl. He retreated to hastily genuflect and then resumed his place, his efforts rewarded by a toothless smile from the elderly woman.
Hogan focused his attention on the altar, as the organ issued a series of chords, and the congregation raised their voices in solemn proclamation.
"Agnus Dei, qui tolis peccata mundi, miserere nobis."
His resonant baritone joined with those around him, tremulously at first, but then gaining in strength.
"Agnus Dei, qui tolis peccata mundi, miserere nobis."
The thunderous vibrations of the organ rumbled up from the floor and reverberated throughout his body, shaking him to the very core. He dropped to his knees as though losing all muscle control, his torso trembling in synchrony with the resounding notes. His hands were clasped so tightly, his knuckles were blanched and muscles quivered.
"Agnus Dei, qui tolis peccata mundi, dona nobis pacem." Oh Lord, grant me peace. Bring an end to this journey I've taken.
At the sound of his voice, a woman, two rows back, raised her covered auburn head. Her eyes searched the crowd, a puzzled look on her face, and then visibly started when her gaze came to rest on the back of his head. Leisa drew her kerchief further forward, trying to shield her face. Keeping her head bowed, she periodically made furtive looks in his direction.
As he remained riveted in the pew, she rose to proceed up the aisle for Communion, averting her face when she passed by. On her return, she continued past without stopping, intent on exiting the church before she was discovered. Others, eager to slip out ahead of the crowd, their mouths watering for the late evening feast waiting for them at home, had already begun to fill the vestibule. She pressed against them, but progress was slow.
Finally, she reached the exit and crept past the thick stone portal. Leisa groaned in dismay. A solid wall of churchgoers lined the steps out front. She took a deep breath and inched her way along, slowly making her way down the steps, where progress halted once more. Suddenly, she felt a tug on her sleeve. Leisa turned to face a pair of warm, smiling brown eyes.
"Oh, it's you."
"Yeah, it's me," Hogan replied with a sheepish grin. He noticed she didn't seem particularly surprised to see him. "Fröhliche Weihnachten is in order, I suppose."
"Ah, yes, Merry Christmas to you, too." The throng still had them hemmed in, and she glanced around nervously to see if anyone was watching. She smiled awkwardly as they stood there, waiting for the crowd to lighten so they could pass.
"I suppose you have somewhere to go now? Family to be with," he paused, "or maybe friends?" There was a hopeful, questioning look in his eyes.
She hesitated. "Oh, er, yes, certainly." She glanced back at him as they inched forward slightly. "And what about you? You, um, celebrating with friends this evening?"
He shrugged. "'Fraid not. I don't really know anyone, being new here and all."
Leisa nodded. "Of course." She looked anxiously at her watch, feeling as though their conversational well had run dry. As she glanced down, someone jostled her, pushing her off balance. She fell backward and suddenly found herself pressed against Jäger, his arms clasped tightly around her.
"You okay?" he asked with concern.
Still in his embrace, Leisa looked up and found herself gazing directly into his eyes. There was a particular clarity and brightness to them she'd never noticed before. His cheeks were reddened with cold and several snowflakes lay scattered atop his characteristically rumpled hair. The flakes almost seemed to sparkle; silver in contrast against the coal blackness. He continued to hold her, the stream of parishioners diverting without pause as it flowed around them.
"Yes," she said, her voice so hushed he wasn't certain she'd even spoken.
"Yes?" he asked, his face momentarily uncertain.
She broke her gaze and nervously cleared her throat. "I mean, I'm fine, yes, er, thank you." She groaned inwardly. What a mess she was making of all this.
Reluctantly, Hogan released her. Both occupied themselves with the suddenly pressing need to brush lingering flakes of snow from their coats.
"Say, I was wondering..." Hogan hesitated, shrugging his shoulders. "Uh, I was wondering if maybe you'd like to have a drink or something first, you know, before you visit with your friends, uh, if you felt like it..." His voice trailed off, as he winced slightly; he hadn't felt so awkward since asking a girl out on his first date. And that had been a considerable number of years ago.
"Oh, well, I..." she glanced quickly around. The crowd hadn't thinned much, but as best she could tell no one was paying attention to them. She paused for a moment, wrestling with her conscience. She couldn't afford to get involved. There was a job to be done. Apologetically, she shook her head.
"I think not. My, er, friends...are expecting me."
"Oh, right, sure, I understand." Hogan's eyes dropped. "Well, I suppose I'd better be running along as well." He tried to make his voice sound light and cheery, but it wasn't convincing, least of all to him.
"See you," he said finally, giving her a small wave. He turned away and mingled gradually into the crowd.
Leisa stood there, wanting to say something, but not even knowing what words to choose. How could she possibly explain things to him? She turned, pulling the kerchief further over her head to keep the heavily falling snow from striking her face. The image of him walking slowly away, shoulders slumped in disappointment, consumed her. She halted in her steps, suddenly resolving the internal conflict, and spun around, her eyes searching the direction in which he'd gone. The street was filled with bustling revelers, making their way down the snow-covered boulevard. He was nowhere to be seen.
With a heavy sigh, she turned back and wrapped her arms more tightly about her. The man had looked so utterly lonely. And she knew precisely how he felt.
Chapter Eighteen
Peter Newkirk wasn't sure he'd ever experienced such complete boredom before. He'd run through every card trick, every slight of hand, and every display of prestidigitation in his expansive repertoire. Twice. And at last check he'd managed to consume only another thirty minutes from a series of unceasingly monotonous hours. He rolled onto his side and peered over the edge of the bunk. Carter was in the same position he'd been in for the past hour, flat on his back, eyes focused intently on the slow movements of a solitary spider that was painstakingly constructing a silvery bridge in the gap between two of the bunk posts.
"Carter, what do you think you're doing?" he asked in an annoyed voice.
The American blinked as he broke his concentration from the contrived task at hand. Kinch glanced over at LeBeau as they sat at the table, each trying to pretend they were engrossed in reading.
"I'm watching Petey," Carter answered peevishly.
"Watching ruddy Petey, d'you say? What're you talkin' about there, Carter? Don't tell me you've gone completely daft."
"No, honestly, I'm watching my pet spider. He's just about to attempt a difficult maneuver." Carter turned his attention back. "Shhhh," he hushed, "you might upset his concentration."
Newkirk rolled his eyes and lay back on the bunk. Almost a full minute elapsed before he jerked bolt upright, the shared wooden structure shaking in response.
"Say, wait a minute, now!" he exclaimed. "Do you mean to tell me you went and used me given name for a bloody bug?"
Carter frowned as he reached across his chest and carefully scooped up the toppled pet. "Gosh darnit, Newkirk, look what you did! You went and made him fall. Now he's got to start all over again." He shook his head in irritation.
"Yeah, well, at least you'll have something to do for the next hour before lights out," Newkirk grumbled in reply.
Carter replaced the insect on its perch and swung his legs over the side of his bunk, sitting up. Craning his head up at his bunkmate, he patiently began. "Besides, Newkirk, it's not a bug, it's an arachnid. One of the oldest known insects on earth. Did you know its name comes from the Greek language and means--"?
He broke off as the sudden creaking of a bunkbed frame startled everyone. Kinch whirled around at the sound, a frown creasing his face. With the exception of his infrequent excursions to check the radio for messages that never came, no one was supposed to be using the tunnels. The men had been languishing under orders to stand down and so far it was as though London had completely forgotten about them.
Every eye in the room was riveted on the sliding bunk frame. Kinch swiftly drew in his breath as the back of a man's head, his hair jet black in the dim light, popped up into view. He slowly exhaled, trying to control his anger, as the figure turned around. Braden's grin, which seemed exceptionally broad, flashed at him from across the room. He clambered excitedly over the bunk rails and slapped the top beam to force its closure.
"Okay, Braden," Kinch asked, his suspicions mounting, "just where've you been?"
Put out at Kinch's tone, Braden crossed to the table and sat down, his excitement only partially dampened.
"Oh, nowhere special. I just felt like going into town for a while."
"What?!" Kinch exploded. "You got a problem with your hearing, Braden? Didn't London say we're to stand down? What're you trying to do, get caught and expose everything before we even have a chance to pull out of here?"
"Fine, be that way. Just for that I'm not going to tell you what I heard from one of our contacts in town." Braden turned, leaning back against the table's edge, his arms folded stubbornly across his chest.
"Eh, what does it matter," LeBeau muttered. He'd been as bored mindless as the rest of them. Lately, even his cooking had suffered. Just last night, he'd willingly dumped an entire pot of ersatz bouillabaisse down the latrine. He had to agree with the others that not even the guard dogs would have consumed the fare.
"Yeah, you're right." Braden got up and stretched lazily in place. "After all, it only had to do with a report of somebody spotting Hogan."
"Where?"
"When?"
"Did you see him yourself?"
Questions flew at him, while the men gathered around, each pressing for more details.
Braden held up both hands, waving them off. "Hey, never mind. Maybe you're right, and I should just forget everything."
He turned, falsely truculent, toward Kinch. "I promise not to break the rules again, boss."
"Knock it off, Braden," Kinch growled. "Now, what's this about someone having seen Colonel Hogan?"
Braden leaned over the table toward the circle of men.
"You know Max the grocer's?"
"Yeah, right, you going to tell us Colonel Hogan was in there buying potatoes? Leave off." Newkirk shook his head in exasperation.
"Not quite. I stopped by, and Max told me he'd just heard from another underground contact in Hamburg. She saw Hogan," Braden paused for dramatic effect, "at their local Gestapo headquarters."
"Ohmygawd."
"Sacre bleu."
"Was he okay?" Kinch immediately anticipated the worst. He forced back a shudder at the possible consequences of Hogan being subjected to the Gestapo's most brutal techniques.
Braden snorted in disgust. "Hardly. Seems that sonovabitch walked right in on his own."
Carter looked puzzled. "To give himself up, you mean?"
"No, no. Supposedly, he's working for the Gestapo."
"Impossible."
"Not the Colonel!"
"Yeah, well this woman overheard a Gestapo officer there refer to him as a confidential informant. They're paying him off to tell them everything he knows, probably to wrap up all the operations in the area, including ours."
"No way, Braden. You're blowing smoke." Kinch shook his head in disgust.
"Yeah? Well, maybe you should get on that radio of yours and see if it checks out like I said."
"I'm going to do just that, Braden," Kinch looked him squarely in the eye, "and this had better not be another one of your stupid gags." He stood from the table to head for the radio room, an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach.
***
LeBeau nervously slid a mug of coffee across the table toward Kinch, haltingly resuming his place at the table some twenty minutes later.
"What'd you find out, Kinch?" Carter asked, sounding anxious.
Kinch sat still, his forehead furrowed in a deep frown, as he stared down into the mug. After a lengthy pause, he looked up at the others, his voice subdued.
"Braden's right. A cleaning woman at the Gestapo building in Hamburg saw Colonel Hogan walk right in. She's part of the underground there and remembered seeing the Colonel at a resistance meeting about a year ago. She recognized him immediately. He went in on his own to pass information to some Gestapo major named Kronbach. Even had an appointment to meet with him."
"Told ya." Braden leaned against his bunk post, surveying the anguished looks on their faces. "So, what're we going to do about it, huh?"
Kinch raised his head and wearily addressed the sergeant. "What do you mean, Braden?"
"I say we go there ourselves and teach him a little lesson." Braden raised his eyebrows in surprise, his remarks meeting with no reaction from the others. He stepped to the center of the room, hands sweeping his audience in entreaty. "We're not going to let him get away with this, are we?"
"None of us is going anywhere, Braden. We're following London's orders and sitting tight." Privately, Kinch brooded over the news and worried about its potential impact.
Braden shook his head in disgust. "Well, now I've heard everything. You guys are just going to sit here while that traitor rats us all out."
"Le Colonel would never betray us!"
"Yeah, right, you keep telling yourself that, Frenchie. As for me, I think he's gone over to the other side."
Kinch spoke, his voice so quiet the men had to strain to hear his words. "I don't care what you think, Braden." His eyes remained fixed on his clenched hands atop the table. "Nobody is doing anything."
Braden snorted in disgust. "This guy turns Benedict Arnold and you're just gonna let him sell us down the river, huh?"
He stomped over to his bunk and grabbed his field jacket off the bed, pulling it on as he headed angrily for the door.
"I think I need some fresh air. Things are looking awfully yellow in here." The door slammed shut behind him, the noise shattering the thick silence.
"Le Colonel would never betray us," LeBeau affirmed, his voice hushed. "N'est ce pas?" he pleaded, looking uncertainly at Kinch.
Kinch despairingly covered his face with his hands and slumped forward on the bench. "I don't know, Louis. I just don't know anymore."
By all appearances, Kronbach's mood had returned to normal the following evening. Leisa thought she even heard him humming a brief tune, while he waited patiently for Jäger to show up. She placed drinks before the two men after he arrived; pretending to ignore the wink Jäger gave her.
Reaching inside his coat pocket, Kronbach withdrew a slip of paper and slid it across the table.
"Do you think you can get these items?"
Hogan looked at the list. "It depends. How quickly do you need all this?"
"What about one week? Can you manage that?"
Hogan made some mental calculations, looking over the list carefully. "Let's make it three days from now. That's Christmas Eve. Should make a nice present for someone, hmm?"
Kronbach's eyebrows lifted in surprise. He had had some doubts as to whether Jäger would be able to deliver any of the items.
"Very nice, indeed." He lifted his drink and eyed Jäger intently over the rim, draining the glass slowly. "So, my friend, what exactly persuaded you to change your mind about our little endeavor?"
Hogan coughed. "Let's just say I need to liquidate some of my inventory. Business hasn't been the best, and I'm thinking of relocating, maybe quite soon."
"I see. Well, perhaps my associates and I can help you turn your business around." Kronbach smiled thinly, as Hogan stood from the table.
"Yeah, maybe. Uh, I suppose I'd better get busy, if I'm to collect all of this for you. Where do you want me to deliver it?"
"Just come to my office when you have it ready. Here's the address." Kronbach handed him another slip of paper.
Hogan winced. "Ah, yes, one of my favorite establishments. Gestapo Headquarters. I don't suppose you'd like a reduced price option by skipping the delivery charges and picking up the goods yourself, hmm?"
Kronbach chuckled. "You have nothing to worry about. Just tell the officer at the front desk you are there to see me. I'll make sure he knows what to do."
Hogan looked at Kronbach carefully for several moments. "All right. See you in three days." He reached into his pocket for some currency.
"Ach, there's no need for that. I've arranged with Karl to cover the bar bill for you. Consider it a signing bonus as part of our little merger, eh?"
"Well, that's unexpectedly generous of you, Herr Kronbach." Hogan raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Danke sehr."
"Nichts zu danken, Herr Jäger. See you in three days."
"Three days. Right." Hogan reached out with his left hand to shake Kronbach's, before he turned to leave. As he passed through the room on his way out, he glanced at Leisa. He wasn't sure, but thought he saw a look of critical disapproval on her face.
Kronbach sat at the table, deep in thought, as two men approached from across the room. Reaching his table, the taller of the two cleared his throat.
"Ah, Hermann," Kronbach said, looking up. "I presume you noticed the change in Jäger's attitude?"
"Ja. But, I still don't trust him."
"Neither do I, Hermann, but for now he may be of use to us."
"I don't understand, Herr Major," the shorter man spoke up. "Why would you even consider going into business with this Jäger in the first place? Why don't we just follow him to where he keeps his goods and then take what he has?"
"Patience, Gunther, patience," Kronbach said with a smile. "This arrangement is only temporary. Jäger is not likely to have all of his merchandise in one place. We must first learn as much about his little operation as possible. Once we know who are his suppliers, we will have what we need to run things without him."
"And then?" Gunther asked with a wistful smile.
"And then, we get rid of him. Permanently."
The short man vigorously nodded his agreement.
"In the meantime, we will be taking our first delivery from Jäger three days from now. I think we'll be more than ready for him, eh?"
Gunther sneered evilly. "We certainly will."
***
"Any news, Kinch?" Carter scanned his friend's face, as he stepped from the ladder and clambered over the lower bunk rails.
The communicator shook his head. "Nothing."
He swung one long leg over a bench and wearily rested his elbows on the rough wooden table in the middle of their barracks.
LeBeau handed him a steaming mug of ersatz coffee.
"Thanks, LeBeau, smells almost as good as mom used to make." He took a sip and grimaced. "Maybe better. How'd you manage to capture that special taste of the Detroit public water system?"
"Comment?"
"Never mind," Kinch replied with a smile to the Frenchman's puzzled expression. "Oh, I almost forgot, we did get a message from London."
He reached inside his field jacket to retrieve some blue notepaper.
Newkirk rolled over on his upper bunk and peered down at the others grouped around the table. "Did they find Colonel Hogan?" he asked expectantly.
"Nope, sorry, still no word on the Colonel, although they've got every underground member on the continent looking for him. He must've holed up somewhere good, that's all I can figure."
He handed the paper across the table to Carter, who scanned the brief message.
"Say, they're giving us the holidays off!" Carter said in surprise.
"Huh?" Newkirk reached down and grabbed the paper from Carter's hand.
"London wants us to continue to stand down for now. Guess they're givin' us Christmas and New Year's off for a change. Some break, eh?"
"Geez, Kinch, when are they going to make a decision?" Carter's face mirrored the exasperation in his voice.
"Beats me." Kinch shrugged powerful shoulders inside his olive drab field jacket. "Now I know how frustrated the Colonel used to feel when he'd be waiting to hear back from them on something important."
"Gaw," Newkirk exclaimed in exasperation. "They're goin' to make us rot here in this hole 'til they figure out what to do with us!"
He hopped from his bunk and stalked across the room to retrieve a handful of darts adorning a circular bulls-eye on one wall of their barracks. Backing up several paces, he took careful aim. The dart barely pierced the furthest edge of the outermost ring.
"Bloody marvelous. Maybe if we're really good chaps, they'll air-drop us some plum pudding for a Christmas feast, eh?"
He angrily hurled another dart. The feathered shaft missed well wide of its mark. Newkirk glared at where it stuck, still quivering, in the exact center of a blue RAF garrison cap cupped over one corner of a wooden bunk frame.
"Double bloody marvelous."
Chapter Sixteen
Hogan checked his watch again, as he walked down Kirchestrasse a second time. He didn't want to be too early, but at the same time was anxious to get this over with. For some reason, he didn't have a good feeling about the impending appointment and had been fighting his unease all day. But, it was too late to turn back now.
His head bowed in thought, Hogan approached an unmarked building at the end of the street and began to trudge up the wide stone steps worn smooth by the years. Hogan shuddered. How many unfortunates had been dragged over their surface for them to appear so polished? He pushed the thought away, pausing for a moment before the front entrance, as though considering whether to turn away. Reluctantly, he took hold of the iron ring, long ago rusted into the wood, and tugged on the heavy door. A kerchiefed charwoman, one hand closed around the inner door handle, stumbled out. She struggled momentarily to regain her balance, dirty water from her pail sloshing onto the stone steps and splattering his shoes.
"Ach! Verzeihung, mein Herr! Please forgive my clumsiness."
Hogan, in a foul mood to begin with, glared at her without saying a word. She scurried quickly past him to heave the water into the gutter and then slipped silently back inside, where he waited before a tall reception desk. It reminded him of the imposing booking benches in the precinct houses back home, and he half expected to see a ruddy-faced sergeant named O'Malley behind the desk. The illusion was immediately dispelled when a trim, bespectacled young man in black uniform, his collar appointed with the twin silver flashes of the SS, peered down at him.
"Ja?" he asked with a sneer, scrutinizing Hogan's worn suit and unshaven face.
Hogan anxiously glanced around. The only other individual present was the charwoman, her back turned as she busied herself with her mops and rags in one corner of the foyer.
"I, uh, I'm here to see Major Kronbach."
"What for?" The sneer was replaced by a look of inquisitiveness at the mention of Kronbach's name.
Hogan nervously cleared his throat, trying to answer sotto voce. "We, uh, have some business to discuss."
"Is the Herr Major expecting you?"
"Yes. My name is Jäger. I'm a few minutes early for our, uh, appointment."
"Just a moment." The young man raised a telephone to his ear. Hogan couldn't catch the conversation at the other end, but after only a few words the receiver was replaced in its cradle. The desk officer signaled to a second man seated behind him.
"Corporal Schneider, take this individual to Major Kronbach's office. He is an informant working for the Herr Major."
Hogan started at the unexpected public declaration of his business. He quickly glanced around the now empty foyer, breathing a small sigh of relief.
"Jawohl, Herr Captain. Follow me."
Hogan hesitantly followed the young corporal up a narrow flight of stairs and down a long, well-lit corridor lined with closed doors. He'd been in Gestapo buildings before, sometimes even at their invitation, although the circumstances weren't usually very pleasant. He blinked away the memories, while they halted before an unmarked door. The corporal looked at him curiously, signaling for Hogan to enter.
Hogan depressed the handle, and the door slowly swung open. Kronbach was seated in a leather wingback chair, partly concealed behind a dark wooden inlaid desk. Rows of bookshelves, filled with expensive-looking volumes with gold-embossed spines, lined one wall. Kronbach's left hand toyed with a crystal-handled letter opener atop the blotter covering his otherwise pristine desk. Hogan noticed that the other hand was purposely out of view. The fading rays of daylight weakly passing through window sheers lent a pale, grayed quality to his face, like a human mushroom. A mushroom cultivated in the dank bowels of Gestapo interrogation rooms, Hogan reflected.
As he warily entered, the sound of the door creaking closed behind him eerily broke the silence. Hogan whirled to see Gunther, a huge, crooked grin on his face, firmly sliding the bolt in place. Hermann, wearing a more impassive expression on his still-bruised face, stood to the right of the doorway, his arms folded resolutely across his chest.
Kronbach spoke from behind. "Guten tag, Herr Jäger. I believe you all know each other?"
Hogan slowly let out his breath, trying hard to control his reaction. "Ah yes, let me guess. This is Abbott, and," gesturing to the other, "you must be Costello."
Kronbach chuckled.
"Not quite. These are my associates. Hermann," the taller man with crossed arms nodded, "and Gunther."
Hermann smirked derisively in return. "I'd offer to shake hands, but I see you're incapacitated."
"Oh, this?" Hogan replied, as he lifted his hand, still wrapped in thick bandages. "It's nothing, really. Just a hangnail." Turning to Gunther, he asked innocently, "And how's your knee?" Hermann held out one hand to restrain the shorter man beside him.
"Herr Jäger, you will turn back around and have a seat, please."
A wooden chair scraped across the floor, as Hermann kicked it in Hogan's direction. He turned slowly, his eyes quickly scanning the room.
"Or, perhaps, you would prefer to be called Colonel Hogan?" Kronbach's voice remained steady, almost detached, while he raised his arm from beneath the desk, pistol in hand.
Hogan halted momentarily and then continued lowering himself onto the chair, trying to will his body to appear relaxed. He leaned back, hooking one arm over the chair so he was partially facing a set of French doors along the outer wall.
"I'm afraid you've got me confused with someone else. I don't know what you're talking about."
"Come now, my friend, I think we're beyond playing such games with each other, hmm?"
Kronbach kept his eyes on Hogan's strained face and slid open the top desk drawer to extract a black and white photograph, tossing it on the blotter in front of him.
Hogan swallowed hard, recognizing a picture of himself in uniform. He couldn't quite make out where the photo had been taken, but despite the graininess, the figure's identity was clearly discernible.
"Just, uh, just what is that supposed to prove?" Hogan licked his lips.
"By itself, perhaps nothing. However, it was delivered to me by a most special acquaintance of yours, Major Hochstetter."
Hogan quickly glanced to the side. The French doors were probably only one flight above street level. If he timed it right, he could break through the glass and vault over the railing to the street below. He'd managed it once before without putting himself permanently out of action, during a close call with an unfriendly Gestapo interrogator. He nervously smoothed back his dark hair with one hand, turning to face his questioner.
Kronbach continued, his voice level, as he carefully watched the tense figure seated before him. "He paid me a visit a few days ago. It appears a German military vehicle belonging to LuftStalag 13 was abandoned outside town. He seemed convinced, as a result, that you would be found in this area."
Hogan groaned inwardly, bowing his head and wearily rubbing his temples. Damn, he'd hoped the truck was better hidden than that. If it hadn't been for his ankle, he wouldn't have needed to ditch it so close to town.
"Well, I'm waiting for an answer. Just what did you think you were going to accomplish by this little charade, hmm?"
Hogan paused for a moment and then lifted his eyes, sighing resignedly. "Look, I...I didn't have any choice. I was just trying to get through this damned war like everybody else."
He glanced once more at the tall windows. They were three, maybe four, steps away.
"I got dealt a raw deal, that's all." He looked directly at Kronbach, his eyes desperate and, he hoped, convincing.
"I understand you were in the process of being transferred to a special camp near Dachau. Do you know what that would mean?"
Hogan paused, trying to gauge Kronbach's intent. "I'd heard things from other prisoners," he began cautiously. "Word gets around, especially when new men come into camp. I knew if I landed there, my odds weren't good to ever make it out again."
Out of the corner of one eye, he noticed Gunther staring attentively at him.
"I'd say your assessment was quite accurate."
Hogan cleared his throat. "So, uh, just what do you intend to do now?"
"Excellent question. I'll have you know I have carefully weighed the options." Kronbach pensively tapped the letter opener against his chin. "For the moment, I think we'll leave things the way they are. We have a business arrangement, and I intend to honor it."
Hogan appeared to relax slightly, shifting in the chair. "I don't get it. What do you gain from not turning me in?"
Kronbach smiled coldly in return. "Now, now, we both realize I have much to gain from our little enterprise. Let's just say I'm looking to secure my financial future far more reliably than a career with the state ever could, eh?"
Hogan half-smiled in return, relief sweeping over him. "Sure. I guess I can't blame you for that."
"However, it all depends on how well you come through on your end of the bargain. If you do anything to cross me," his voice hardened, as he slowly drew the metal point of the letter opener across the photograph, slicing the image in two, "I will see to it that my determined Gestapo colleague has an opportunity to do what he wants with what is left of you."
He punctuated his threat by raising the letter opener and thrusting it downward, spearing the photograph in place. His eyes shifted from the quivering crystal shaft to Hogan's suddenly colorless face. "Do I make myself clear?"
Hogan coughed uncomfortably. "As clear as the handle on that little toothpick you've got there."
"Fine. Then let's get down to business, shall we? Where are the goods?"
"They're not far from here in a safe place. I, uh, I didn't think you'd exactly want me wheeling them in the front door of your office."
"Quite true and very perceptive on your part." Kronbach's smile quickly erased from his face. "So, where are they?"
Hogan reached inside his jacket, deliberately slowing the motion, as Kronbach lifted the pistol in warning. He pulled out an envelope and tossed it on the desk.
"The address is on the outside of that envelope. Four blocks from here is a dead-end street. At that number is a house with a large storage shed in back. There's a key inside the envelope that will open the padlock on the door. You'll find everything you asked for in there. The homeowner has been paid off and will conveniently be away for the evening, so you'll be able to unload everything in relative privacy. Just make sure you leave the key and padlock inside the shed when you finish. I only arranged for this one-time use."
Kronbach nodded his head thoughtfully in admiration. "Very convenient, indeed."
"The arrangement works well. I don't want people coming by my flat, as it might raise suspicion. There's a very nosy pensioner who runs the place. Plus, keeping the goods in temporary storage reduces the likelihood someone else might steal from me. As soon as they figure out what I'm up to, I've moved on to the next holding area."
"You seem to have everything worked out."
"So far I think I do." Hogan's eyes appeared to flash momentarily.
"However, there's something more we need to discuss."
Hogan looked sharply at Kronbach. There was something in the way he spoke that made Hogan feel he wasn't exactly out of the woods yet.
"We can't very well have others realize who you are, or your dear friend Wolfgang Hochstetter will be on you in an instant and there goes our little operation. I think it is best if we continue to refer to you as Herr Jäger, don't you?"
"Anything to avoid a visit from ol' ferret face. Sorry, I mean Major Hochstetter." Hogan smiled gamely.
"Very good. The pretense for your visits here will be that you are an informant working for me. I also obviously can't have my colleagues aware of our little business venture."
"Sure. I meant to ask you what was going on with that informant stuff when the boy scout in the crisp black shirt directed me here. Makes sense, I suppose."
Kronbach looked over Hogan's shoulder and nodded almost imperceptibly to Gunther who, disappointment clearly showing on his face, begrudgingly retracted the protesting bolt with a snap of his wrist and then stepped aside, glaring at Hogan.
Hogan visibly sighed with relief, rising from the chair to turn toward the door.
"Oh, just a moment."
Hogan halted, his back stiffening. He slowly turned toward Kronbach, toying with the pistol atop his desk.
"Yes?" Hogan tried to keep his voice neutral.
"Before you go I think we need to make one final thing clear."
Kronbach rose slowly from behind his desk, the pistol at his side. He crossed to the French doors, turning the handle and pushing them open to step out onto the narrow balcony.
"Kommen Sie hier," he threw over his shoulder.
Glancing nervously at Hermann and Gunther, Hogan moved slowly across the room, halting cautiously at the threshold.
Kronbach gestured for him to step out onto the balcony. Hogan took a step, and the two men faced each other guardedly in the late afternoon light. Kronbach inclined his head toward the railing. "I thought you might want to take in the view for a moment."
Hogan eased his way toward the edge, his eyes locked on Kronbach's. Reaching out with one hand, he felt for the rail and then glanced quickly over the side, visibly blanching as he did so. The drop below was almost three stories in height.
Kronbach took a step forward, blocking his return.
"It may not have occurred to you that the ground sloped away behind the building, did it? I'd imagine a man would end up in rather pitiful condition if he were to make that disastrous plunge."
Kronbach slowly raised the gun, pointing it chest-height, his voice even.
"Don't make the fatal mistake of underestimating me. You may have found that my colleague Herr Hochstetter is easily duped, but I am not. He gets along through mere zeal; I operate by always being one step ahead of my adversaries. Don't forget that."
His mouth suddenly dry, Hogan swallowed hard, as he nodded his head. Gesturing with the pistol for Hogan to pass by, Kronbach stepped to one side. Hermann and Gunther's eyes followed him, while he slowly exited Kronbach's office in silence.
Deep in thought, Kronbach crossed leisurely to his desk and casually tossed the gun with a thump onto the blotter.
"Hermann, I need you to run an important errand for me."
The taller man stepped forward.
Kronbach reached into the desk drawer and pulled out a piece of paper. He scribbled something on it, holding it out.
"Take this to our friend and ask him to use his network of contacts in London to see what he can find out for us."
Hermann studied the paper and frowned. "You think he still has connections? I thought they finally realized he was working for us."
"Indeed, they did, that's why we had to get him out of England. But there are others who remain hidden in place and have not yet been found out. Our friend will know how to get in touch with them to make the necessary inquiries."
Hermann nodded.
Kronbach sat down heavily in the chair, then stretched out a hand and lightly tapped the upright letter opener piercing the photograph, setting it quivering. He glowered at the bisected image.
"Not yet, but soon," he muttered aloud.
Chapter Seventeen
His hands jammed in his pockets, Hogan trod slowly down the stone steps. Two men passing by purposely crossed the street in avoidance, looks of evident distrust on their faces. One didn't leave Gestapo headquarters unmarked and under one's own power unless one was in collusion with them. He felt as though he wore a scarlet "T" branded across his chest. A modern-day version of a Hester Prynne whose moral corruption, in lieu of adultery, consisted of treason.
Hogan pulled his collar up to shield his face and walked hurriedly away. It was several blocks before he allowed himself to slow down. He absent-mindedly reached into an overcoat pocket and withdrew his flask, now almost empty. As he upturned the container, the cheery sounds and bright lights emerging from a nearby home drew his attention. Looking in either direction down the deserted street, he carefully slid his way along the sidewalk to peer inside a window. He stood there, blinking reflectively as he watched the activities within.
A large, extended family, the young ones decked in their holiday finest, ringed an evergreen tree dominating the front room. Each held a lighted taper, and all merrily raised their voices in familiar-sounding carols, while lighting tiny white candles adorning the tree's branches. The happy, tranquil, domestic scene rooted him in place.
The sight made him long for the companionship of the men he had abandoned. Reminiscing, he wondered if Klink had given in and allowed them to light a bonfire in the compound. They were probably standing out there now in small groups, their insides warmed by the fellowship they shared. Some would be popping corn, while LeBeau would be bustling around serving a special culinary treat he'd managed to craft from the odds and ends he'd carefully horded in preparation for just this celebration.
Hogan's heart ached with loneliness; he'd give anything at that moment to be back with them. He'd thought being finally free would have infused him with a greater sense of elation, but instead he found himself feeling even more confined. His sense of entrapment came not from barbed wire, but by surroundings that made him feel rejected and all too vulnerable. His every attention was focused on survival, mostly hoping to avoid being swept into Hochstetter's net. Despair filled his soul, as he forced himself to turn from the window and continued to walk away. The streets he aimlessly passed looked like pieces of painted stage scenery. Had life become no more than an illusion?
He wandered without direction for several hours, the flask long ago drained. A familiar sound suddenly roused him from his abstraction. The voices of a choir lofted in the late evening air from an old stone church across the street. An elderly parishioner, tardy for the Christmas vigil, scurried inside; from the open door the scent of incense mingling with the clear, jubilant tones wafted toward him. Hogan paused, completely immobile.
Something was tugging at him, something he could not describe, and he stood there, head bowed, as though some internal struggle of conscience were taking place. Raising his head, he looked around self-consciously, but there was no one else in sight. He straightened his tie and tried to smooth his rumpled suit, hoping to make himself look more presentable.
Slowly opening the door, Hogan eased just inside the darkness of the vestibule. His eyes adjusted to the dim light, and he hesitantly made his way up a side aisle, pressed against the wall. The church was nearly full, but Hogan was able to slip past the standing parishioners without attracting attention. He spotted an empty seat at the end of one pew and began to slip in, but caught himself after a neighboring matron looked at him with a disapproving scowl. He retreated to hastily genuflect and then resumed his place, his efforts rewarded by a toothless smile from the elderly woman.
Hogan focused his attention on the altar, as the organ issued a series of chords, and the congregation raised their voices in solemn proclamation.
"Agnus Dei, qui tolis peccata mundi, miserere nobis."
His resonant baritone joined with those around him, tremulously at first, but then gaining in strength.
"Agnus Dei, qui tolis peccata mundi, miserere nobis."
The thunderous vibrations of the organ rumbled up from the floor and reverberated throughout his body, shaking him to the very core. He dropped to his knees as though losing all muscle control, his torso trembling in synchrony with the resounding notes. His hands were clasped so tightly, his knuckles were blanched and muscles quivered.
"Agnus Dei, qui tolis peccata mundi, dona nobis pacem." Oh Lord, grant me peace. Bring an end to this journey I've taken.
At the sound of his voice, a woman, two rows back, raised her covered auburn head. Her eyes searched the crowd, a puzzled look on her face, and then visibly started when her gaze came to rest on the back of his head. Leisa drew her kerchief further forward, trying to shield her face. Keeping her head bowed, she periodically made furtive looks in his direction.
As he remained riveted in the pew, she rose to proceed up the aisle for Communion, averting her face when she passed by. On her return, she continued past without stopping, intent on exiting the church before she was discovered. Others, eager to slip out ahead of the crowd, their mouths watering for the late evening feast waiting for them at home, had already begun to fill the vestibule. She pressed against them, but progress was slow.
Finally, she reached the exit and crept past the thick stone portal. Leisa groaned in dismay. A solid wall of churchgoers lined the steps out front. She took a deep breath and inched her way along, slowly making her way down the steps, where progress halted once more. Suddenly, she felt a tug on her sleeve. Leisa turned to face a pair of warm, smiling brown eyes.
"Oh, it's you."
"Yeah, it's me," Hogan replied with a sheepish grin. He noticed she didn't seem particularly surprised to see him. "Fröhliche Weihnachten is in order, I suppose."
"Ah, yes, Merry Christmas to you, too." The throng still had them hemmed in, and she glanced around nervously to see if anyone was watching. She smiled awkwardly as they stood there, waiting for the crowd to lighten so they could pass.
"I suppose you have somewhere to go now? Family to be with," he paused, "or maybe friends?" There was a hopeful, questioning look in his eyes.
She hesitated. "Oh, er, yes, certainly." She glanced back at him as they inched forward slightly. "And what about you? You, um, celebrating with friends this evening?"
He shrugged. "'Fraid not. I don't really know anyone, being new here and all."
Leisa nodded. "Of course." She looked anxiously at her watch, feeling as though their conversational well had run dry. As she glanced down, someone jostled her, pushing her off balance. She fell backward and suddenly found herself pressed against Jäger, his arms clasped tightly around her.
"You okay?" he asked with concern.
Still in his embrace, Leisa looked up and found herself gazing directly into his eyes. There was a particular clarity and brightness to them she'd never noticed before. His cheeks were reddened with cold and several snowflakes lay scattered atop his characteristically rumpled hair. The flakes almost seemed to sparkle; silver in contrast against the coal blackness. He continued to hold her, the stream of parishioners diverting without pause as it flowed around them.
"Yes," she said, her voice so hushed he wasn't certain she'd even spoken.
"Yes?" he asked, his face momentarily uncertain.
She broke her gaze and nervously cleared her throat. "I mean, I'm fine, yes, er, thank you." She groaned inwardly. What a mess she was making of all this.
Reluctantly, Hogan released her. Both occupied themselves with the suddenly pressing need to brush lingering flakes of snow from their coats.
"Say, I was wondering..." Hogan hesitated, shrugging his shoulders. "Uh, I was wondering if maybe you'd like to have a drink or something first, you know, before you visit with your friends, uh, if you felt like it..." His voice trailed off, as he winced slightly; he hadn't felt so awkward since asking a girl out on his first date. And that had been a considerable number of years ago.
"Oh, well, I..." she glanced quickly around. The crowd hadn't thinned much, but as best she could tell no one was paying attention to them. She paused for a moment, wrestling with her conscience. She couldn't afford to get involved. There was a job to be done. Apologetically, she shook her head.
"I think not. My, er, friends...are expecting me."
"Oh, right, sure, I understand." Hogan's eyes dropped. "Well, I suppose I'd better be running along as well." He tried to make his voice sound light and cheery, but it wasn't convincing, least of all to him.
"See you," he said finally, giving her a small wave. He turned away and mingled gradually into the crowd.
Leisa stood there, wanting to say something, but not even knowing what words to choose. How could she possibly explain things to him? She turned, pulling the kerchief further over her head to keep the heavily falling snow from striking her face. The image of him walking slowly away, shoulders slumped in disappointment, consumed her. She halted in her steps, suddenly resolving the internal conflict, and spun around, her eyes searching the direction in which he'd gone. The street was filled with bustling revelers, making their way down the snow-covered boulevard. He was nowhere to be seen.
With a heavy sigh, she turned back and wrapped her arms more tightly about her. The man had looked so utterly lonely. And she knew precisely how he felt.
Chapter Eighteen
Peter Newkirk wasn't sure he'd ever experienced such complete boredom before. He'd run through every card trick, every slight of hand, and every display of prestidigitation in his expansive repertoire. Twice. And at last check he'd managed to consume only another thirty minutes from a series of unceasingly monotonous hours. He rolled onto his side and peered over the edge of the bunk. Carter was in the same position he'd been in for the past hour, flat on his back, eyes focused intently on the slow movements of a solitary spider that was painstakingly constructing a silvery bridge in the gap between two of the bunk posts.
"Carter, what do you think you're doing?" he asked in an annoyed voice.
The American blinked as he broke his concentration from the contrived task at hand. Kinch glanced over at LeBeau as they sat at the table, each trying to pretend they were engrossed in reading.
"I'm watching Petey," Carter answered peevishly.
"Watching ruddy Petey, d'you say? What're you talkin' about there, Carter? Don't tell me you've gone completely daft."
"No, honestly, I'm watching my pet spider. He's just about to attempt a difficult maneuver." Carter turned his attention back. "Shhhh," he hushed, "you might upset his concentration."
Newkirk rolled his eyes and lay back on the bunk. Almost a full minute elapsed before he jerked bolt upright, the shared wooden structure shaking in response.
"Say, wait a minute, now!" he exclaimed. "Do you mean to tell me you went and used me given name for a bloody bug?"
Carter frowned as he reached across his chest and carefully scooped up the toppled pet. "Gosh darnit, Newkirk, look what you did! You went and made him fall. Now he's got to start all over again." He shook his head in irritation.
"Yeah, well, at least you'll have something to do for the next hour before lights out," Newkirk grumbled in reply.
Carter replaced the insect on its perch and swung his legs over the side of his bunk, sitting up. Craning his head up at his bunkmate, he patiently began. "Besides, Newkirk, it's not a bug, it's an arachnid. One of the oldest known insects on earth. Did you know its name comes from the Greek language and means--"?
He broke off as the sudden creaking of a bunkbed frame startled everyone. Kinch whirled around at the sound, a frown creasing his face. With the exception of his infrequent excursions to check the radio for messages that never came, no one was supposed to be using the tunnels. The men had been languishing under orders to stand down and so far it was as though London had completely forgotten about them.
Every eye in the room was riveted on the sliding bunk frame. Kinch swiftly drew in his breath as the back of a man's head, his hair jet black in the dim light, popped up into view. He slowly exhaled, trying to control his anger, as the figure turned around. Braden's grin, which seemed exceptionally broad, flashed at him from across the room. He clambered excitedly over the bunk rails and slapped the top beam to force its closure.
"Okay, Braden," Kinch asked, his suspicions mounting, "just where've you been?"
Put out at Kinch's tone, Braden crossed to the table and sat down, his excitement only partially dampened.
"Oh, nowhere special. I just felt like going into town for a while."
"What?!" Kinch exploded. "You got a problem with your hearing, Braden? Didn't London say we're to stand down? What're you trying to do, get caught and expose everything before we even have a chance to pull out of here?"
"Fine, be that way. Just for that I'm not going to tell you what I heard from one of our contacts in town." Braden turned, leaning back against the table's edge, his arms folded stubbornly across his chest.
"Eh, what does it matter," LeBeau muttered. He'd been as bored mindless as the rest of them. Lately, even his cooking had suffered. Just last night, he'd willingly dumped an entire pot of ersatz bouillabaisse down the latrine. He had to agree with the others that not even the guard dogs would have consumed the fare.
"Yeah, you're right." Braden got up and stretched lazily in place. "After all, it only had to do with a report of somebody spotting Hogan."
"Where?"
"When?"
"Did you see him yourself?"
Questions flew at him, while the men gathered around, each pressing for more details.
Braden held up both hands, waving them off. "Hey, never mind. Maybe you're right, and I should just forget everything."
He turned, falsely truculent, toward Kinch. "I promise not to break the rules again, boss."
"Knock it off, Braden," Kinch growled. "Now, what's this about someone having seen Colonel Hogan?"
Braden leaned over the table toward the circle of men.
"You know Max the grocer's?"
"Yeah, right, you going to tell us Colonel Hogan was in there buying potatoes? Leave off." Newkirk shook his head in exasperation.
"Not quite. I stopped by, and Max told me he'd just heard from another underground contact in Hamburg. She saw Hogan," Braden paused for dramatic effect, "at their local Gestapo headquarters."
"Ohmygawd."
"Sacre bleu."
"Was he okay?" Kinch immediately anticipated the worst. He forced back a shudder at the possible consequences of Hogan being subjected to the Gestapo's most brutal techniques.
Braden snorted in disgust. "Hardly. Seems that sonovabitch walked right in on his own."
Carter looked puzzled. "To give himself up, you mean?"
"No, no. Supposedly, he's working for the Gestapo."
"Impossible."
"Not the Colonel!"
"Yeah, well this woman overheard a Gestapo officer there refer to him as a confidential informant. They're paying him off to tell them everything he knows, probably to wrap up all the operations in the area, including ours."
"No way, Braden. You're blowing smoke." Kinch shook his head in disgust.
"Yeah? Well, maybe you should get on that radio of yours and see if it checks out like I said."
"I'm going to do just that, Braden," Kinch looked him squarely in the eye, "and this had better not be another one of your stupid gags." He stood from the table to head for the radio room, an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach.
***
LeBeau nervously slid a mug of coffee across the table toward Kinch, haltingly resuming his place at the table some twenty minutes later.
"What'd you find out, Kinch?" Carter asked, sounding anxious.
Kinch sat still, his forehead furrowed in a deep frown, as he stared down into the mug. After a lengthy pause, he looked up at the others, his voice subdued.
"Braden's right. A cleaning woman at the Gestapo building in Hamburg saw Colonel Hogan walk right in. She's part of the underground there and remembered seeing the Colonel at a resistance meeting about a year ago. She recognized him immediately. He went in on his own to pass information to some Gestapo major named Kronbach. Even had an appointment to meet with him."
"Told ya." Braden leaned against his bunk post, surveying the anguished looks on their faces. "So, what're we going to do about it, huh?"
Kinch raised his head and wearily addressed the sergeant. "What do you mean, Braden?"
"I say we go there ourselves and teach him a little lesson." Braden raised his eyebrows in surprise, his remarks meeting with no reaction from the others. He stepped to the center of the room, hands sweeping his audience in entreaty. "We're not going to let him get away with this, are we?"
"None of us is going anywhere, Braden. We're following London's orders and sitting tight." Privately, Kinch brooded over the news and worried about its potential impact.
Braden shook his head in disgust. "Well, now I've heard everything. You guys are just going to sit here while that traitor rats us all out."
"Le Colonel would never betray us!"
"Yeah, right, you keep telling yourself that, Frenchie. As for me, I think he's gone over to the other side."
Kinch spoke, his voice so quiet the men had to strain to hear his words. "I don't care what you think, Braden." His eyes remained fixed on his clenched hands atop the table. "Nobody is doing anything."
Braden snorted in disgust. "This guy turns Benedict Arnold and you're just gonna let him sell us down the river, huh?"
He stomped over to his bunk and grabbed his field jacket off the bed, pulling it on as he headed angrily for the door.
"I think I need some fresh air. Things are looking awfully yellow in here." The door slammed shut behind him, the noise shattering the thick silence.
"Le Colonel would never betray us," LeBeau affirmed, his voice hushed. "N'est ce pas?" he pleaded, looking uncertainly at Kinch.
Kinch despairingly covered his face with his hands and slumped forward on the bench. "I don't know, Louis. I just don't know anymore."