One threat was down, but she still had Von Lindemann wrapped around her legs. “You damned fool,” she screamed, white-hot with anger as she swung the heavy pistol across the side of the Major’s head, once, twice, until he released his grip and she was able to pull her leg free. She raised her fingers to the side of her face and saw blood. The splinters from the doorframe had cut her cheek.
“I told you I did not want to hurt anyone!” she screamed down at Von Lindemann, but the Major could not hear her. He was out cold, but she kept the Luger pointed at his prostrate form anyway. Hanni felt angry enough to pull the trigger, and would have, if Christina Raeder had not thrown herself on top of Von Lindemann and shielded him with her body.
“No!” Christina looked up at her, wide-eyed, certain she was about to pull the trigger.
“Then see that he does not interfere with me again. Do you hear me, girl?” her angry blue eyes warned. She turned away and peered carefully into the dark cabin, keeping her pistol at the ready. “And next time, do not fall in love a man in uniform. He will get you in trouble.”
“Is that you out there, Hanni, dear?” she heard Otto Dietrich call to her from the deep shadows inside the cabin. “It is about time you arrived. I was beginning to think you no longer cared, and had lost your deft touch.”
She took a quick glance and saw the Chief Inspector handcuffed to a heavy iron stove. He lay stretched out on the floor, trying to reach a Luger lying on the floor near Eugen Bracht’s limp hand. Unfortunately for the Chief Inspector, the pistol was just beyond his reach. Unfortunately for Eugen Bracht, the aeronautical engineer had three large bullet holes in his chest as his lifeless eyes looked back at her. Hanni quickly stepped inside the cabin, picked up the Luger, and tucked it into her belt.
“But Hanni, I thought we were partners,” Dietrich said with a disappointed grin.
“Of course, Otto, fifty-fifty,” she smiled benignly. “You can keep the handcuffs, and I will keep the guns.” She stepped closer and made certain that Dietrich and Wolfe Raeder were safely chained to the heavy iron stove. “Apparently, Edward did not trust you, either.”
“Sad to say, but your young Lochinvar has been quite nettlesome these past two days,” the Chief Inspector admitted. “I am afraid he will be coming back very soon, too soon — and he will not be alone.”
“I know, there is fighting in Bad Tolz. I heard the artillery and saw the smoke on the horizon. Look out,” she said as she leaned forward and pressed the Luger against the section of steel chain that connected their handcuffs.
“Wait! No!” Dietrich and Raeder screamed in unison as they pulled apart and tried to get as far away from the muzzle of her gun as they could. When the chain was taut, she pulled the trigger. There was a deafening Blang! inside the small log cabin as the Luger fired and the heavy nine-millimeter bullet hit the chain and the iron leg of the stove. The chain snapped, and the two men fell sideways onto the floor.
“My God, woman!” Wolfe Raeder screamed at her. “Are you trying to kill us?”
“No, but the day is still young, Herr Doktor. Now, get up and get moving,” she answered with a crazed look in her eyes as she pointed the Luger at him. Wolfe Raeder did not wait for a second invitation. He leaped to his feet and ran from the cabin thoroughly terrorized.
“Did I ever tell you how much I love your style, Hanni?" the Chief Inspector asked fondly as he stood and slowly dusted off his already badly stained suit pants. “I shall need a clean suit, but you and I will make such marvelous partners when we reach Moscow.”
Her blue eyes turned icy cold. “Your next partner will be in hell, Otto, and it will not be me.” After all those weeks and months of pain he inflicted on her, she finally had the Chief Inspector alone, at gunpoint, and utterly helpless. Her eyes narrowed as she raised the Luger. “Personally, I prefer the accuracy of one of the Russian automatics, but nothing makes a statement like a big 9-millimeter. It will make such a lovely mess of your face. No more movies, no more arrogant grins, and no more Otto,” she said as she took aim.
Dietrich saw the look in her eyes and turned white, realizing this crazy woman might really do it this time. “No, no,” he raised his hands. “I…”
“Why not? No one here is going to care. I will have Emil Nossing drag your dead carcass outside and the birds can pick at you after we leave. In a few days, no one will even recognize what is left of the great Chief Inspector Otto Dietrich. So, why not?” The rage made her face flush, and she felt her finger tighten on the trigger.
“No, no, you would not do that, Hanni. You need me,” he said as he raised his hands and tried to back away from her, but she matched him step for step until she had him backed against the wall.
“Need you? I do not think so,” she said with the muzzle of the Luger only inches from the bridge of his nose, but she did not pull the trigger. She wanted to, but she did not, not yet. “I need that pig Raeder, but you are merely an extra present I plan to give to Comrade Beria. So I would not overplay my hand, if I were you, Otto. Beria has a special cell waiting for you in his basement. Every now and then, he likes to get personally involved in the work down there; but I am told he tends to get excited and go a bit overboard. ”
She took a step backward and looked down. There was a dark stain spreading on the front of his pants. She smiled. “Now, get out of here,” she whispered, knowing the humiliation was the most useful wound she could inflict on him. He turned and ran out the door of the cabin.
She followed and looked around at the assemblage of thoroughly shaken faces on the front porch. “Doktor Raeder, you and your daughter will ride in the back seat of the car. You too, Herr Nossing, and the Chief Inspector will drive.”
“I refuse to leave Paul! You cannot make me,” Christina Raeder told her. She knelt on the ground next to the unconscious Major, glaring up at Hanni.
Exasperated, Hanni pointed the Luger at the wounded Luftwaffe officer’s head. “Do not start that again, girl. I really will shoot your handsome Captain.”
“No!” Emil Nossing stepped between them. “No more killing! The girl will go with you. We all will, but not if there is more blood shed here. If you kill him, you will need to kill us all, and then you will be left with nothing — nothing!”
Hanni could only stare at the unarmed and exceptionally brave engineer. “Fair enough, provided you get her into the car, Herr Nossing; the rest of you, too. Let’s go.”
“Come, Christina,” Emil Nossing held out his hand to her. “The two doctors will remain here with Major Von Lindemann. It is the only choice you have.”
Slowly, Christina bent down and kissed Paul Von Lindemann’s cheek.“ “Numi, pieta del mio martir,” Oh Gods, take pity on my suffering, she whispered. The girl rose to her feet, turned, and let Emil Nossing lead her away.
Dietrich held his hands clasped over his crotch, but had regained a modicum of composure as he told Hanni, “The man has a point. I would strongly advise against more shooting. You know how detrimental it can be to morale.”
“Really? That is a very touching sentiment, considering that you will undoubtedly get the first bullet.”
“Perhaps, but an old homicide detective once told me that it’s never wise to be found around too many dead bodies. They become harder and harder to explain away.”
Christina Raeder turned back and glared at Dietrich as she opened the car door. "And you were a policeman," she said accusingly. “To think my father tried to push me onto someone like you,” she said in total revulsion.
“He is a miserable wretch, is he not?” the Chief Inspector laughed, “but I prefer my chickens cooked a bit more. Is that not right, Hanni? No offense,” he said as he saw her finger tighten on the trigger once more. “No offense, but I suggest we get moving before your handsome dark-haired lover returns.”
He opened the driver’s door and quickly slipped inside to escape her glare. Running his fingers across the polished wood and the hand-tooled leather, he gushed, “Ah, my marvelous Maybach. You
and I shall make such an elegant statement driving through Red Square. Old Lenin will be spinning in his grave.”
“Lenin?” Hanni laughed. “It is Josef Stalin you should be worrying about.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
When Hanni stuck her Luger into Paul Von Lindemann’s ribs, Ed Scanlon was already twenty miles north of the cabin, turning west on the main road leading to Bad Tolz. It was a narrow tunnel of trees with thick alpine forests cascading down the steep mountainsides right up to the road shoulders, only occasionally broken by broad, colorful meadows and small streams. This might be gorgeous scenery for a tourist; but to a soldier it was an invitation to an ambush. As he drove west from Gmund, Scanlon first got those old feelings again. They always began in his gut, they told him something was not right, and his gut was rarely wrong. He knew he was taking a major risk leaving the others alone in the cabin, but he had no other choice. Bad versus even worse were sometimes the only ones life gives. Since he was the only one who could contact the Americans and expect them listen, he went.
While he was worried about running into remnants of the retreating German Army along the road, he was wearing a German army uniform and driving a German army truck. That meant running into the lead American units could be seriously fatal, as one of his old instructors loved to say. The war was almost over. The Americans were amped up by now, and the GIs with the bad luck to draw point that day were sure to shoot first and check out the bodies later. Why not? He would. No one wanted to be sent home in a box when it was this close to being over.
As he got within two miles of Bad Tolz, an ominous silence fell across the countryside. The wind died and the trees stood still. Even the birds were quiet, as if they knew a storm was about to hit, and decided to get the hell out of its way. For the past few miles, the only Germans he saw were a few stragglers, one staff car, and one badly dented truck, all fleeing east and avoiding even eye contact with him. Now, even they were gone and the road was completely deserted. That was when he saw the dim outline of a tank coming toward him in the distance around the next bend. He quickly pulled over to the side of the road and stopped. From its round shoulders and tall hump of a turret, there was no question it was a Sherman with a squad of American infantry riding on top. As soon as his truck was spotted, the GIs jumped off, fanned out, and came towards him along the shoulders of the road. Scanlon knew that tank jockeys got a little crazy after being cooped up too long inside one of those big cans. Freezing and baking, stinking from diesel fumes, and stone deaf from the god-awful clanks and shrieks of metal on metal, if they couldn’t have a little fun by firing off an occasional round from their main gun, they might as well get out and walk with the infantry.
Scanlon got out of his truck and pulled out a white handkerchief from his pocket. He raised his arms over his head, gave them a big, toothy smile, and began waving the handkerchief as he walked forward down the centerline of the road. The Germans were very good at setting ambushes, using their powerful eighty-eight millimeter cannons as anti-tank guns. Scanlon would not blame the tank commander if he fired at the truck just to be safe, so there was no sense staying too close to it. The tank finally stopped a hundred yards away like a large beast eyeing its dinner. Finally, the turret began to swivel. First, the cannon pointed at the truck. After a few moments, it swiveled back and Scanlon found its 75 mm cannon aimed straight at him. He raised his white handkerchief higher and waved it again, hoping he was not merely providing a better target. Good old American overkill, he thought. One round would be enough to blow him into the next country, which was exactly what the supporting infantry hoped would happen. As soon as they dropped off the tank and started walking, he heard them cussing and grumbling over the low-throated roar of the tank engine. They were not happy about the prospect of walking into a Kraut ambush, nor were they happy about being forced to walk again.
He heard a sharp, Crack! as an M-1 rifle bullet zipped past his ear and shattered the windshield of the truck. “Knock it off, soldier!” he yelled back at the top of his lungs. “Can’t you tell a goddamned white flag when you see one?”
“Yeah, and ah can tell a goddamned Kraut truck when ah see one ‘a them, too!” came the wary reply as the soldiers drew closer. “Who the hell are you, wise-ass?”
“The name is Scanlon, Captain Edward T.,” he shouted as loud as he could as he kept his hands high over his head. “US Army, OSS.”
“Ah, shoot the bastard, Larry. That’s a Kraut uniform, ain’t it?” another infantryman mumbled as they closed in around him, their rifles at the ready.
“Maybe, but it ain’t SS or Kraut army — so what the hell is it?” Larry asked, pointing at Scanlon’s uniform.
“Luftwaffe. German Air Force. Like I said, I’m American, OSS, working undercover,” Scanlon answered as he looked around at them. What a filthy, unshaven lot they were, Scanlon thought — red-eyed, worn-out, frazzled, and absolutely beautiful. They were just the kind of irreverent, ill-mannered amateurs who had pushed the German veterans back, mile after mile, since Normandy. Too bad that prig Bromley couldn’t join them for tea.
The guy they called Larry wore sergeant stripes and seemed to be the man in charge. He eyed Scanlon from head to foot, and then motioned for the tank to come forward. “Scanlon, you said? … OSS?” he asked as he lowered his rifle and a curious expression came over his face. “Hey Fred, what was that crap the Lieutenant said about a case of whiskey?”
“Who you kidding? You were sleeping. I saw you sleeping.”
“Until I heard him say something about booze.”
“G-2 is looking for a guy named Scranton, or Thornton, or some goddamned thing,” another trooper shot back. “He said Patton put up a case of his own Tennessee bourbon for the guy who finds him and brings him in.”
“The name was Scanlon and I’m sure he said you had to bring him in alive,” Scanlon emphasized with a friendly smile.
“Yeah, he probably did say alive,” Larry had to concede.
“So do us all a favor, Sergeant, get on the radio and have somebody call Colonel Haggarty at Patton’s headquarters, G-2. Looks like you guys just won the door prize.”
Larry fixed his eyes on the GI who wanted him to shoot. “Yeah, and it’s a damn good thing none of youse listened to dumb ass Dombrowski here, ain’t it.”
An hour later, three mud-spattered US army jeeps charged up the gravel road from Tegernsee, spread out, and bounced across the meadow to the cabin. Scanlon sat in the passenger seat of the lead jeep wearing a borrowed US army helmet and a khaki US fatigue jacket over his blue Luftwaffe uniform. One hand was braced on the Jeep’s dashboard and the other gripped a Thompson submachine gun. There was another GI in the rear seat behind him, and three more men plus a thirty-caliber machine gun mounted on a post in both the second and third Jeeps. He had donned an American army fatigue jacket and infantry helmet in deference to the badly frazzled nerves of the GIs forced to ride along with him. None of them wanted to be the last name added to that plaque hanging on the wall of the American Legion hall back home. This was the heart of Nazi Germany. Unlike the drive through Holland and France, there were no adoring crowds of women with bottles of wine and kisses to greet them in Bavaria. They met nothing but broken people, downcast eyes, hostile glares, and hardcore SS.
His driver was an unshaven PFC with bloodshot eyes and a cigarette dangling out of his mouth. Sitting in the shallow rear well behind them was a large, heavily muscled GI nervously fingering his own Thompson. It was obvious from their faces that they still weren’t too sure about this OSS spook Captain who was now taking them on a sightseeing trip deep into Indian Country, and they sure as hell weren’t sure about the Colonel from G-2 who told them to, “get their asses in the goddamn Jeeps and do whatever he says,” whether they liked it or not.
Their regiment had spent the past thirty-six hours digging the last SS fanatics out of Bad Tolz, building by building and body by dead body. They liked the dead body part. No quarter would be asked and none was ever gi
ven when it came to the SS. The men in black might be scraping the bottom of the barrel now, filling their ranks with young boys, old men, and foreign volunteers; but the GIs did not relish the prospect of running into strays. It no longer mattered which language the bastards spoke — Croat, Dutch, Polish, Lithuanian, or Hungarian — one nut with a new Sturmgewehr assault rifle could kill you just as dead as another.
“Hurry up!” Scanlon told the driver as the jeep broke into the clearing and headed straight for the cabin. Unfortunately, even from the bottom of the hill, he saw that something was very wrong. The Maybach was gone. The only people he saw were the two concentration camp doctors, Bauerschritt and Rendler, and the truck driver. They sat side by side on the front porch with their backs against the front wall of the cabin as the jeep skidded to a halt and Scanlon jumped out. All that the three Germans saw was a maniac in a GI helmet waving a Thompson submachine gun, so they immediately raised their hands high over their heads. Scanlon saw the prostrate form of Paul Von Lindemann lying on the ground in front of them. His head rested on a pillow and he was not moving.
“It’s me, Scanlon,” he shouted as he looked down at Von Lindemann. “Is he…?”
“No, just another knock on the head,” Bauerschritt replied. “He’ll be fine.”
Scanlon ran inside the cabin, but it was empty. There was no Wolfe Raeder, no Otto Dietrich, no Christina, and no Emil Nossing. All he found was the body of Eugen Bracht lying in the middle of the room where he fell. “How long ago did they leave?” he came back out and shouted at the two terrified doctors.
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