Thank you to Marilyn for the great beta!
Chapter Sixteen
Klink's staff car rolled up to the curb in front of von Rogner's hotel.
"This is it, gentlemen," Olsen called over his shoulder from the front seat. He furtively glanced about, reached up and pulled the brim of his cap lower.
Klaus' head went down, his shoulders drooped and his eyes grew guarded. With von Rogner's persona firmly in place, he climbed out of the car and into the quickly fading light.
The hotel's porter left the shelter of the building's awning and approached the car with a practiced smile of greeting. Hermann rounded the car, stepped onto the sidewalk, and stared down at him through narrowed eyes. The combination of his size and fierce glare wiped the smile from the porter's face. He quickly returned to his station to await friendlier patrons. His eyes nervously tracked Klaus and Hermann as they passed by and entered the hotel.
The lobby was occupied by a single man, seated in a tall wingback chair near the fireplace. He glanced up, took note of Klaus' entrance, then went back to reading his newspaper. Klaus descended the two steps to the lobby floor and went directly to the reception desk and rang for the clerk. The bell's tinny sound summoned a thin mouse of a man out of the back room. He hastily dumped the load of mail in his arms into a basket, fished a key from one of the numbered slots behind the desk and dropped it into Klaus' palm.
"Herr Field Marshal, your room has been cleaned and fresh linens placed on your bed." His gaze jittered past Klaus to Hermann and an eyebrow twitched.
"My guard will be staying with me," Klaus stated, using von Rogner's bland tone. "Have a cot brought to my room along with an extra set of linens." Without waiting for a response, he turned and headed for the stairs. Hermann smoothly slid into position behind him, staying several paces back and to the right. Walking with as much dignity as the pigeon-toed pace would allow, Klaus took the carpeted, winding staircase to the second floor. Von Rogner had indicated their room was to the left and four doors down, at the very end of the hall.
The room was ornate without being ostentatious. Carpet of royal blue cushioned their feet and floor-length navy draperies shot with gold filigree hung in heavy folds from brass rods. Oiled furniture of dark wood gleamed in the soft light from lamps positioned beside the bed, wingback chair and entry table. The room's focal point was a beautifully carved mantle above a brick fireplace. Intricately detailed lions with flowing manes and sleek, powerful bodies held court among prides of graceful lionesses. And on the wall opposite the bed, set apart and festooned with red drape, was the obligatory portrait of Hitler.
Klaus went to the center of the room and braced his hands on his hips. He was under no illusion that they were actually alone in the room. A man of von Rogner's status would have the Gestapo's rabid attention, especially before a meeting of such secrecy.
Catching Hermann's attention, he pointed to his ear and made a circular motion with his finger.
Hermann nodded and methodically started searching one side of the room. Klaus did likewise with the other. As he went toward the bed, his gaze happened to fall upon his boots. The black leather was scuffed and dust-covered from the short walk from the tunnel to the car. Knowing the ears listening would expect conversation of some kind; he got Hermann's attention, held up a hand and bringing thumb to fingertips repeatedly, mimed speech. The somberness of his voice was completely at odds with his mischievous smile.
"My boots appear to need polishing."
Hermann's eyes rolled and he made an impolite gesture. His verbal response, however, was completely respectful.
"Yawhol, Herr Field Marshal."
Klaus snickered under his breath and brushed his fingers lightly along the top of the bed's massive headboard. He found nothing and moved on. He was checking beneath the bed when Hermann's hand went into the air, waved, then pointed to a bug nestled at the base of the bedside lamp's shade.
The device was ludicrously obvious and Klaus huffed quiet laughter.
Hermann shrugged, acknowledging the ease of the find. He still insisted on claiming his due. His finger pointed upward and waggled emphatically.
Showing his teeth in a wolfish grin, Klaus returned to the search.
They located three more of the Gestapo's ears.
Klaus found one tucked away on the underside of the telephone stand.
Hermann discovered another perched on the fireplace mantle behind a bulky vase that just happened to be permanently glued down.
The last showed real ingenuity. Klaus discovered it in the scroll-work of the ornate frame holding Hitler's picture.
A sharp rap at the door ended their bit of fun. Their eyes met across the room.
Klaus spun toward the mirror. The mustache was neatly horizontal, the glasses were perched on his nose, the forelock was behaving for once, and his uniform would pass the strictest of LeBeau's inspections. He took a deep breath and signaled his readiness.
Hermann opened the door. The chamber maid hesitated on the threshold, then timidly entered bearing a stack of linens. The twitchy desk clerk stood in the hall, holding a cot in his hands. Klaus tried not to visibly wilt in disappointment.
The clerk and maid had no sooner left the room when the door rattled from a series of impatient knocks. Hermann glanced in the peephole and went still. Hand poised over the doorknob, he looked back at Klaus, nodded once, and opened the door again.
Major Wolfgang Hochstetter strutted into the room.
"IDIOT! Never let anyone into your room unannounced! You -- " Hochstetter's tirade cut off as Hermann's gun nudged the base of his skull.
"The field marshal is to be addressed with respect, Herr Major," Hermann said in a respectful but firm voice.
Hochstetter's eyes bulged in their sockets. "Who is this man?!?"
"My protection," Klaus answered mildly. "I thought it wise to attend this meeting with a guard of my choosing. The Gestapo, while renowned for its efficiency, is not without fallibility." He made a dismissive gesture. Hermann holstered his gun and stepped back.
A red face joined Hochstetter's bulged eyes; and a muscle in his jaw jumped. Lips curling into a sneer, he hooked his thumbs in his gun belt and bounced on the balls of his feet.
"You call this one man protection?"
Klaus allowed a pointed moment of silence to pass. "He stopped you."
The sneer that had been directed at Hermann swung sharply back to Klaus.
"You could have been shot the moment he opened the door."
"The door has a peephole, Herr Major," Hermann countered softly.
Hochstetter's chest puffed with self-importance. "Partisans could have been standing out of sight, forcing me at gunpoint to gain entrance."
Hermann tilted his head, regarded Hochstetter as an eagle would a mouse. "You didn't appear to be sweating, Herr Major."
Hochstetter sputtered, went from red to purple.
Making a mental note to ask Hermann about his sudden, reckless desire to court death, Klaus intervened.
"If you are quite finished in your attempts at the last word, Herr Major?"
"WHAT IS THIS MAN'S NAME??!!?" Hochstetter forced through bared teeth, almost frothing at the mouth.
Klaus folded his hands before him in one of von Rogner's unassuming poses. His tone, in counterpoint to Hochstetter's, remained soft and calm.
"Is my transportation ready, Herr Major?"
Still staring furiously at Hermann, Hochstetter fired back, "A car is waiting downstairs. It will take you and your. . . " his teeth made a distinctly unpleasant grinding sound. ". . . protection to the meeting."
"And where will you be?"
Hochstetter turned a falsely sweet smile toward him. "I will be riding with you, Herr Field Marshal."
"What a cozy arrangement." Klaus murmured, already steeling himself for the drive to the bunker.
Hochstetter suddenly lost all expression. He moved toward Klaus, a smile crawling across his face. It took great effort, but Klaus remained still. Hermann slowly slid his gun free again.
"Your mustache . . ." Hochstetter's blunt fingers brushed against the hair on his own lip. Leaning even closer, he asked in a conspiratorial voice, "Tell me . . . how do you trim it so neatly without getting one side thinner than the other, eh?"
HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
Klaus climbed out of the car, burying the urge to smile. The bunker resembled a child's building block shoved into a pile of dirt. The innocent illusion vanished the moment he entered the installation. There was nothing innocent about this place.
He followed Hochstetter's back through well-lit passages, peripherally aware that the temperature was dropping as they traveled deeper inside. The faintest of breezes wafted against his face, stirred up by fans struggling to circulate air laden with the musty odor of mildew. The sound of their boot heels bounced off cement walls faintly filmed with condensation. Without thinking, he started to rub his lip. He stopped himself at the last moment. Clamping his fists closed, he focused determinedly on his surroundings rather than his itchy lip.
A set of large double doors came into view beyond Hochstetter's shoulder. Suddenly solicitous, the Gestapo officer stepped to the side and with a sweep of his arm, allowed Klaus through the doorway ahead of him. The politeness didn't extend to Hermann. Pointedly stepping into Hermann's path, Hochstetter sneered up into his face, then turned and marched inside.
Knowing Hermann was more than capable of withstanding whatever games Hochstetter might play, Klaus concentrated on looking around. The room was longer than it was wide and had a low ceiling. The walls - another depressing shade of gray - were bare except for Hitler's portrait, which hung in the place of honor at the head of the table. A gun-metal gray table that comfortably seated twelve sat in the exact center of the room. Ten of the seats were already occupied by six field marshals and four generals. For the moment, Klaus focused upon the two men standing against the wall at the far end of the room.
Their white lab coats identified them as either doctors or scientists. The taller of the two was almost skeletal in appearance, with jutting cheek bones, sunken eyes, and hair so thin only stray wisps covered his skull. A grin changed the man's sharp-angled face into an ugly death mask as he walked forward and extended an arm in salute.
"Welcome, Field Marshal von Rogner." The man's voice sounded like he had gargled with broken glass.
Klaus returned the salute without replying. Von Rogner habitually let other people carry the weight of conversations. As the field marshal had told him during his preparation for the mission, many things could be learned by simply letting others speak their minds.
"I am Doktor Theodore Arkel and this . . ," a painfully bony hand at the end of an equally wasted arm pointed across the room.
The other lab-coated man wore thick glasses and was loaded down with a teetering stack of thick folders. The stack threatened to fall as he stepped away from the wall in response to Arkel's introduction.
". . . is my assistant, Doktor Peter Rosstal. If you'll take a seat with the others, Herr Field Marshal, we'll begin."
One of the other field marshals stood up from the table. The warmth in his smile warned of more than a simple greeting. Klaus quickly consulted the descriptions von Rogner had provided, fit one to the man and came up with a name.
"It is good to see you again, von Rogner," the other man said. "You're looking quite well. The time in Kitzbühel seems to have been beneficial."
Klaus nodded stiffly, projecting von Rogner's reticent nature. "Yes. Though of course, I stayed off the slopes." The answer flowed naturally and received a chuckle and nod in response. He delved into his memory once more, plucked out another bit of information that von Rogner had supplied. "And you, Huber. It appears that you've recovered from your wound."
"It still pains me occasionally. The damp weather plays havoc with -- "
"The two of you can compare health notes some other time!" snapped Hochstetter, rudely shouldering between them.
Klaus and Huber glanced at him with distaste and took their seats. Pulling his chair up to the table, Klaus looked around at the other men and came up with four that fit descriptions von Rogner had given him. None of the other four appeared eager to speak with him, though.
The meeting began slowly. Certain rituals had to be adhered to and the right amount of ego stroking had to be done before the actual purpose of their gathering could be addressed. Klaus was careful that his responses – few though they were -- fit von Rogner's personality. No one seemed the wiser that they had a ringer in their midst.
Finally, Arkel curtly motioned Rosstal out of the corner. The assistant shuffled around the table, distributed a folder to each of them, including Hochstetter, then returned to the corner. Klaus flipped open his folder and began to read. Arkel's gravel-throated voice droned on in the background, highlighting the contents. Four sentences into the second page, Klaus' heart skipped a beat.
The papers detailed Arkel's creation, not a master plan of attack against the Allies. Proudly, the emaciated scientist described the gas that he had labored for years to perfect. Colorless, odorless and utterly lethal, it had been developed to overwhelm and decimate entire battalions in minutes. Its uses, Arkel raved, were endless.
Over the roaring in his ears, Klaus faintly listened while Arkel glowingly described his tests and the resulting evidence of the gas' effectiveness. The scientist's bony finger stabbed down upon the photos included within the folders. Klaus rifled past several pages of charts and graphs and immediately averted his eyes. Men, women, children and even babies had all been subjected to the gas. And all had died in agony.
Hochstetter hunched over the pictures. A cruel smile played upon his face as he chuckled to himself. The other officers, while not showing Hochstetter's sadistic pleasure, murmured their approval.
Bile surged in Klaus' throat in burning, acid waves. Swallowing repeatedly, he reached for a glass of water to cool the fire. His hand remained steady and he prayed his face betrayed none of the nausea roiling in his stomach. Firmly, he directed his attention upon Arkel and away from the memory of what he had seen in that brief moment. The disgust in Arkel's voice tightened his concentration even further.
"Unfortunately, production has been temporarily stalled due to the destruction of one of our shipments." Arkel's watery blue eyes burned with fevered intensity. "Utmost secrecy was employed to guard this convoy of vital chemicals, yet the Allies somehow learned of the schedule and route. The destruction of the convoy, while unfortunate, is only a minor setback in our on-going research and development. We remain dedicated to our purpose for the glory of the Fatherland. Full production will resume as soon as another shipment can be assembled and shipped."
Carter was right, Klaus thought, keeping a wary eye upon Arkel as the scientist left the table and slunk to the door. Nasty stuff made by a very nasty man. London's strike on the convoy bought us some time. How do we use it to stop this?
"If you'll come with me," Arkel said, pausing in the doorway. "I will give you a tour of our laboratories."
With a scraping and screeching of metal chair legs across concrete, the group rose and followed the skeletal man and his assistant into the hall.
To be continued. . ..