Thomson kept trying to spin the pieces around in his head, but they would not behave and fall into the right places. Instead, he kept hearing little alarm bells going off, ringing louder and louder, telling him something was very, very wrong. He closed his eyes and concentrated on Kilbride’s words, but the alarm bells were drowning them out. He heard the woman’s voice, Ilsa Fengler’s, too; and all of them jumbled up in a mishmash of words and voices and alarm bells. And none of it made any sense to him.
What was it she said? If her father had nothing to do with the rockets, then what did he do? Why had Kilbride called him a rocket scientist, if he wasn’t? The wall full of pictures and framed certificates flashed across the inside of Thomson’s eyelids as if they were movie screens, but he still couldn’t make any sense of it. Peenemünde? Kilbride said they came from Peenemünde, presumably when the US Army grabbed them all in Operation Paperclip; but apparently, they didn’t grab Fengler, too. Why not? Thomson was behind the lines in Germany then. He wasn’t part of it, but he knew the plan was to grab them all and sort out who was who later. Thomson remembered the building in that group photograph. The sign said Hechingen. If it was rocket scientists, then why wasn’t Von Braun’s face in any of the shots, or any of the other top guns like Willy Ley, Hermann Oberth, Walter Dornberger? From the number of picture frames on the wall, it was obvious that Fengler had a monumental ego. Surely, he’d want a few shots with Von Braun and Willy Ley, wouldn’t he?
Questions… questions up the yin-yang, but not one damned answer. Before one came to him, the car had stopped in the turnaround at the small, open passenger terminal of the Cairo airport. Collins and the two security guards wasted no time. They gave him the two-armed hustle through the main concourse, marching at double-time past the gates for the “goat and chicken” flights into the interior, until they reached the departure gate for the Air Egypt flight to Rome. If Collins had his way, they would have continued out the gate and right across the tarmac to the airplane, but a very officious Egyptian gate agent stepped in and blocked their way. Waving his finger in the air, he told Collins, “No, no.” The man had his rules, and no one in Egypt was more determined to keep them than a minor bureaucrat with a rulebook.
Thomson smiled, turning his head toward the runway. Kilbride was wrong about one thing, he told himself. The airplane wasn’t ready, it was still refueling. Hardly unexpected, Thomson thought, since nothing in the Middle East ever ran on time, or very often.
The gate agent eyed Thomson and the two security guards up and down and frowned. “Is that this gentleman’s suitcase?” he asked, pointing to the one the guard was carrying.
“Yes,” Collins answered firmly, not accustomed to being challenged, as he handed Thomson’s ticket to the agent.
“Most irregular, most irregular,” the man mumbled as he slowly examined the ticket, page by page, and began initialing, stamping, and punching holes in it
“Look, this is official business and we’re in a hurry,” Collins shot back in a loud, arrogant voice. “So, if you’ll just step aside and let us deposit him on the airplane, we can all be on our way.” Collins raised the chain and flashed his Embassy ID. The customs man gave him a dirty look and inched aside just enough to allow Thomson to edge through, but stopped Collins with a firm palm in the chest. The young American’s pushy attitude might have worked ten or twenty years before, but not now and not here.
“May I see your tickets?” the agent asked as he held his other hand out to Collins.
“Our tickets?” Collins flared. “We don’t have tickets. You can see we are just putting him on board.”
“Your tickets!” the man insisted, “Or, would you prefer I call our security, the tower, or perhaps the Aviation Ministry to put a hold on this flight?”
“No, no!” Collins glared at the agent, who finally smiled. Collins turned to Thomson and snapped, “Oh, all right, go ahead and get aboard, Thomson, and good riddance. Enjoy the flight to Rome. A contingent of baby sitters from Langley will meet you there; but don’t worry, I got you a good seat in coach next to the engine and just opposite the toilet. I’m sure you’ll enjoy the ride.”
“My suitcase?” Thomson replied as he turned and held out his hand.
“Oh, come on, you know how it goes,” the Boy Wonder said as he handed it over. “Nothing personal, just orders.”
“Just orders, huh?”
“The chief was right, you know. You could have avoided all this, if you’d just done what he told you to do.”
“And what fun would that have been, Collins?” Thomson smiled as he turned away.
“Yeah, well, ciao, old man.”
“Yeah, ciao to you too.” His movements seemed almost mechanical as he stepped outside onto the tarmac, paused, and took a few deep breaths. The sun was just coming up in the east, but Thomson’s mind was buried in old files, thumbing its way through old black and white photos of Von Braun and the other rocket scientists at Peenemünde. Something was wrong. Every time he conjured up images of them, they were standing in the bright sunshine like this. They were proud, robust men, posing in front of a launching pad, windblown and smiling, with the sandy beaches of the North Sea spread behind them. That photo scene with Von Braun must have been mandatory, like a class picture or a souvenir. Each man had to pose there with him, standing in front of one of his shiny new toys.
Thomson realized there was no picture like that on Fengler’s wall… not one. There were no rockets, no Von Braun, and no proud, smiling faces on a sandy beach. Fengler’s group looked like a bunch of nervous gnomes. They stood on the steps of that heavy brick building as if they’d been ordered to be there, hiding behind each other, afraid and unsure about the whole thing. No matter how hard Thomson jammed the pieces of the puzzle together, they did not fit into Kilbride’s picture; and he knew it. What were they doing in Hechingen?
With every step he took toward the airplane, the alarm bells rang, like fire bells in the night that would not quit until he had answered their call. They rang louder and louder, until he stopped walking and stared out at the airplane. Slowly, he turned and looked back at Collins and the two security guards. None of the pieces fit, none of them; and Kilbride was too stupid to understand. Thomson had the sick feeling he never would either, not until it was too late.
Slowly, he turned and looked back at the gate. Collins stood there watching him as Thomson set the suitcase down, raised his right hand and gave the Boy Wonder a classic one-fingered salute. “You can have the socks,” he shouted, and then turned and began sprinting down the tarmac toward the end of the terminal, running as fast as he could.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Ilsa Fengler was too weary to continue arguing with him. Although he was her father, that was no longer enough. Over the years, he had lost her, piece by lonely piece, until there was nothing left for him to grab and use as leverage. More sad than angry, she turned away and stared out the kitchen window at the pot of wilted geraniums sitting on the outside ledge.
“No,” she answered quietly, slowly shaking her head. “The American did not harm me, Papa. He would not have done that. I know he would not.”
“What would you know of men like that?” he scoffed, trying to make her feel like a child again.
“Papa, I know he wouldn’t, that is all. I just know.” Finally, she turned and looked up at him, her eyes showing her growing anger and disappointment. “He was far less dangerous than Grüber, Klaus, or the rest of those animals.” She knew Papa could never deal with the truth. He had insulated himself from it, as well as from her, for far too many years. Instead, he turned his eyes away and resumed his incessant pacing back and forth across the kitchen floor, pulling his handkerchief from his pocket and wiping it across his brow.
“This heat,” he mumbled. “It is so oppressive.”
That wasn’t the reason he was sweating, and they both knew it. Wiping his brow wouldn’t help and neither would ignoring her words, but he continued doing them both anyway. She knew him
better than he could ever know her, or at least she used to; but he had become a mystery to her, and she was no longer sure.
“What did the American want with you?” he asked again, quietly, but insistently. “Why did he come here and seek you out? Why you, Ilsa? Why did he come here and take you with him, you of all people? Surely you know how that must look.”
“Look, Papa? To whom? To you?”
“Of course not to me, Ilsa.”
“Then who? To Grüber? Well, I answered his questions last night, Papa. I answered them until the sun came up, and I no longer care how anything looks to that man. Do you — do you really care?” She studied his face, and what she saw made her sick. “Is that what this is all about? Did Grüber order you to come here and interrogate me?”
“I don’t take orders from Grüber,” he bristled.
“No? Then why do you keep asking me the same stupid questions he asked, or is it just that you don’t you believe me either?”
“Of course I believe you, Ilsa.” He fidgeted and tried to smile, but he refused to look at her. “Mein Gott, girl, how could you leave the compound with that American? He is a trained spy and probably an assassin. He might have killed you… or worse. I could not stand that.” His hands were trembling, and she saw that his eyes were filled with terror. “Not after what happened to your mother,” he began to sob. “You know you are all I have left now.”
“Oh, stop it, Papa! That won’t work anymore.” She had heard it too many times, finally lost her temper, and found herself shouting at him. To her utter amazement, he cringed and shrank back like a small child after a scolding. That should have made her feel even worse, but it didn’t. Her feelings and emotions about her mother’s demise had been used and abused by him for far too many years to remember or to forgive. She despised him for continuing to use them to dominate her. No, though it was her father’s voice, she knew the message was coming from Major Grüber and General Hoess. She should have died in the air raid with her mother. That would have been best. The shell of a man standing in front of her still deserved her pity, but he no longer deserved her love.
Finally, she turned away and leaned heavily on the old porcelain sink. “I am twenty-nine years old now, Papa. Stop treating me as if I were a child of twelve.”
“Ilsa, I need you,” he whispered. “That American is a very dangerous spy. Why can you not see that? He came here to sabotage my work and no doubt to kill me if he got the chance. He is not the first, you know. They have sent others — the Americans, the British, and the Jews; and they’ll send more if he fails. Don’t you understand, they will never leave me alone. They can’t. This time, they sent this man Thomson to work on you, to turn you. Don’t you see how dangerous that makes him?”
“Nonsense! Who told you that? Grüber? General Hoess?”
“You know I cannot tell you.”
“No, I suppose you cannot,” she said heavily. “Well, the American might be many things, but he is not dangerous and I do not think he is a killer, either. He was clever, infuriating, and even funny; but he would never harm me.”
“He is a murderer! The police want him for murder!”
“No, Papa,” she answered quietly. “I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life. It would have been a simple thing for him to do, if that was why he came here; but he did not lay a finger on me. Apparently, he got into the base, into our house, and even into our living room, past all the fences and barbed wire, and past Grüber’s crack SS security guards easily. If he had wanted to harm you, all he had to do was wait here in the house until you returned, but he did not do that either, did he? No, it is Grüber who failed. He is trying to deflect all the blame on me, and you are letting him get away with it.”
Ilsa thought of Thomson. She found herself smiling and had to turn away so Papa would not see. She remembered how silly she must have seemed to the American with her hair tied up in those pink curlers and wearing that despicable bathrobe… silly, and incredibly gullible. “Yes, he was clever and very infuriating, Papa,” she said with a bittersweet smile, recalling the excitement of that hour and the anguish that followed. “Afterward, he did exactly what he said he would, didn’t he?” she turned back and glared at her father. “He left the car at the embassy and left the gun under the front seat.” She pointed at the old Luger lying on the dusty kitchen table. “Doesn’t that tell you anything?” she asked, waiting until he finally looked at it.
“It tells me you should have shot him when you had the chance. That would have put an end to all these rumors.”
And put an end to me, Ilsa thought. “I don’t shoot people, Papa. Could you? That’s why you have Grüber and his precious guards. Aren’t they supposed to protect us? So, who is he to accuse me?”
Fengler didn’t reply. He continued to stare at the old Luger until he mumbled again, “I detest those things.” Slowly, he reached out and picked up the heavy gun, letting it dangle from his fingers as if it were a dead rat. He opened the kitchen cabinet, placed it on the top shelf, and closed the door. “You are right, Ilsa. I shall file a protest with General Hoess about this entire incident when he arrives. After that intruder last week and now this incident, I can convince him it is all Grüber’s fault.”
Ilsa watched him, trying to remember what he had been like, but those memories were old and faded now. Maybe it was the times. Maybe it was herself. Maybe she was the one who had changed and not her father. Maybe she looked at things differently now that she was grown up. She stared out the window at the geraniums again, pulling the pot closer and moving it into the shade. She remembered that Thomson liked them, and smiled. She filled a small pitcher with water, poured it into the flowerpot and let it overflow, knowing even that would not help for long. The water quickly disappeared into the parched potting soil and the desert wind sucked the life out of the plants and everything else it touched, leaving nothing but crumbling stone monuments, desiccated mummies, failure, and dust.
“I cannot take this anymore, Papa,” she said with a heavy sigh as she gazed absently out into the empty desert. There was nothing out there but heat, swarms of angry flies, and a gritty coating of sand on everything. She had had enough of that to fill a lifetime. Why could he not understand? She turned and looked at him, but his voice continued to drone on.
He wrung his hands and stepped closer to her, his voice shrinking to a pathetic whine. “Ilsa, you must realize how dangerous things are right now. They say this Thomson is a CIA agent, and an incident like this… well, you know how it could look if you, of all people, were suspected of helping a foreign spy.”
“I want to go home,” she stated firmly, completely ignoring his words. He did not react, but she knew he heard her. He was blocking her out again. He did that frequently now, pretending that if he chose not to acknowledge something, even her, then it did not happen. “Did you hear what I said, Papa?” Her voice grew more insistent. “I said I want to go home.”
“Home?” he finally answered, sounding confused, as if he did not understand the word. “You mean to Germany? We cannot go there, not yet. My work is not finished.”
“I never complained before. You know that.” She must make him stop his rambling if he was ever going to understand what she wanted. “I have always followed you wherever you went … to Spain, South Africa, Argentina, North Korea, and even here; but it never changes, does it? It is always the same. We go from one backward military outpost in some godforsaken third-world country to another; but why, Papa? Why? What has it gotten you? What has it gotten us, and where will we go next? There will be a next, won’t there, and another one after that, until I am old and gray, too. So tell me why, Papa. I have the right to know that much — at least tell me why.”
“Ilsa, it is my job. It is research; you know that.” He dismissed her words with an impatient wave of his hand.
“Papa, I am not a stupid child. Stop treating me as if I were one. I have never asked what you are doing or why, but open your eyes. Look at the kind of p
eople you are working for — Hoess, Grüber, and all the rest of them.”
“I do not work for them,” he bristled.
“Oh, yes you do, Papa. You think you are above all that, but you aren’t. You are only lying to yourself — and to me.”
His eyes flashed, but he offered no reply.
“I am frightened, Papa. It was never like this before. I have eyes. I can see the guards and the tanks, and I have talked to the others — the wives and younger men. You aren’t doing research, are you? That isn’t why they brought you here. I have seen the rockets that Höchengler and his people are assembling, and I know what you are making. What do you think the Egyptians are going to do with them? What do you think they are going to do with your research when it is completed? So, please take me home,” she pleaded. “Take me home now, before it’s too late.”
“We are nothing in Germany,” he scoffed, his voice becoming more agitated as it rose in pitch. “I am nothing there. Nothing! Don’t you understand? Do you want me to go back and become someone’s lab assistant? They want me to do all the work and see others take all the credit, as they did to me during the war. Never again. They dismissed me, dismissed my work, and called it second rate. Well, I was right; and they were the ones who were wrong. No, Ilsa. You ask too much.”
He was working himself up into a towering rage again. With that faraway look in his eyes, she knew it was useless to keep arguing with him.
Unfortunately, he had only begun. “Those fools. If they had listened to me back in 1943, things would be far different today, wouldn’t they?” He began pacing the kitchen floor again, faster and faster. “I would be Germany’s leading atomic physicist. Me! Do you think I like this place?” His hand swept around the room. “Do you think I like working year after year in pestholes like this? I hate them more than you can ever imagine, Ilsa. I shall never go back there, not until my work is recognized and they drop to their knees and beg me to come.”
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