The Hess Cross

by James Thayer

  Hess didn't look up from the magazine as he rocked back and forth.

  "This magazine is much better than anything we've got in Germany," he said in his wandering voice. "Photo journalism. Isn't that what it is called?"

  "Smithson and Kohler are dead. I know about the bomb planted at Fermi's experiment."

  Hess blinked several times, then recast his face. The deputy führer's eyes transformed from the vacant, staring, shallow pools of a lunatic to the penetrating eyes of one accustomed to power. His jaw firmed, and for the first time in Crown's presence, he did not assume the silly smile of a weak-minded sycophant. Crown saw the Rudolf Hess who could enthrall 100,000 Nazis at a mass rally with visions of Germany's destiny, and who could plan the invasions of Poland and Czechoslovakia. Power flowed into Hess's features, and in a two-second transformation, he became a commanding presence.

  "I see," he said in his deep, resonant voice, devoid of the flecks of insanity. "So you have discovered our operation, Mr. Crown."

  "Get your coat."

  "My immediate superior will not be pleased."

  "You'll never see him again, anyway."

  "No, but nevertheless . . . " Hess's voice trailed off as the full meaning of Crown's words surrounded him. "My trip to Scotland has gone for nothing. All those soldiers we forfeited. Well, it was a gamble." He tied his shoelaces. "I want you to know, Mr. Crown, that we weighed all the risks. We knew what this mission would cost. The Führer and I did not go into this venture with our eyes closed."

  "Hurry, Hess."

  "It's important that you understand. We Germans are losing the war. It has gotten much worse since I left Germany. You've heard of our Russian-front debacle? That's the beginning of the end. I'm sure of it. The Führer is more far-sighted than you believe. He knew we had to have the atom bomb. The fate of the Third Reich was the stakes. Can you understand this?"

  Crown nodded, to hurry him. Hess wrestled into his raincoat.

  "I want you to know, I want at least one person to know, that I'm not insane and that I acted with purpose and forethought. History will record me as a deserter and a lunatic, but you'll know the truth."

  "Do you know how the bomb is wired?"

  "I have no idea."

  "What's the technician's name?" Crown asked as he took Hess's arm to guide him out of the EDC house.

  "If I told you that, I would truly be a traitor."

  "I can simply have Fermi postpone the experiments to look for the bomb."

  "Any delay is better than none for Germany."

  "Get into the car."

  Three minutes later they arrived at the Stagg Field grandstand. Crown was pushing it now, knowing the explosives would go when the needle hit the self-sustained mark. Fermi had said between three and four o'clock. It was 3:10. With his identification card in one hand and Hess's elbow in the other, Crown hustled Hess through the door on the south wall of the lobby. Crown rapped on the inner door with the same code Fermi had used several days before. A guard admitted them and then opened his fingerprint pad.

  "I don't have time for that," Crown said without breaking step. He pushed on the next door, but it remained closed.

  "I'm afraid everyone must be printed and checked," the guard said. He was wearing a brown business suit two sizes too small for him. His ink-black hair was carefully combed.

  "Do you know who I am?" Crown asked, his voice stiffening.

  "Sure, Mr. Crown, but this is procedure here . . . "

  The guard stopped mid-sentence as the barrel of Crown's pistol bit painfully into his lip.

  "Open the door. Now."

  The guard forgot procedures as he clicked the signal switch and the iron door swung open. "You'll get reported for this, Crown," he yelled after them.

  They descended the steep stairs to the court observation level. The piles of graphite that had lined the walls during Crown's tour had disappeared. The hall was dim and dank and smelled of mold. An army guard leaning against the hallway wall nodded to Crown.

  "Has anyone come out of the observation room in the last few minutes?" Crown asked.

  "No, sir. Not for an hour or so. They got all the scientists in there watching the experiment. Today must be the big day. None of them is going to miss it."

  "One of them will try. We'll wait here."

  A small smile crossed Hess. "So you are not calling off the experiment, Mr. Crown," he said in a low voice suitable for the sparsely illuminated hall. "Perhaps my mission will be successful, after all."

  "Don't count on it, Hess. I'm a great believer in the instinct for survival."

  As the echo of Crown's words died in the hall, the observation door opened, and a white-coated technician walked into the hall. Crown recognized him as the curly-dark-haired white-coat he had seen working on the components at a table during his tour of the court. Crown waited until he tried to pass them, then slapped the corner of the technician's eyeglasses. A thin stream of blood spurted from the side of the white-coat's nose where the spectacles' nose rest dug into the skin. The technician grabbed for his glasses, but Crown hit his wrist with the pistol barrel. When the technician opened his mouth to cry out, Crown's pistol barrel hit his jaw. Any movement produced pain, so the technician stood still, and Crown said, "Running away from something in there? Let's go back and find out what."

  He shoved the white-coat toward the door and grabbed Hess's elbow again. The guard's face reflected his puzzlement, but he wasn't about to question the flying pistol. Crown opened the observation-level door and shoved them through it.

  It was a historic scene, one that would be remembered in the legend of science with the Wright brothers' first flight and Galileo's gravity experiments from the Tower of Pisa. Enrico Fermi was bent over the table, peering at the particle-counter needle. His head nodded between the needle and the scientist below him on the squash-court floor, who had his hands above his head, pulling the cadmium rod inch by inch from the graphite pile.

  'Try it another inch, Jack."

  The rod was slipped out a little farther. The needle climbed almost imperceptibly. "A little more."

  Eight or ten scientists and technicians peered over Fermi's shoulder at the gauge. They stood with their hands behind their backs or at their sides, with their fists alternately clenching and relaxing. Like Fermi's, their gazes bounced between the needle and the rod. Occasionally one looked to the platform above the pile, where two technicians dressed in heat-resistant uniforms knelt with buckets of dousing solution in their hands, ready to drench the pile if the reaction became overheated. As Fermi had once mentioned to Crown, stopping a reaction that was slightly overheated was one thing. Dousing an uncontrollable fission reaction may be impossible. No one knew the consequences if it raced out of control.

  Tension was palpable in the squash court. This moment was the culmination of years' work. These scientists were on the verge of unlocking America's energy destiny, and, more tangibly, altering the war's course. Other than Fermi's tense commands, no one spoke. Only the counter marked the tension, with its eerie, erratic ticking.

  "Another inch, Jack."

  The needle moved slightly more toward the red mark, and the ticking increased. The scientists and technicians inhaled as one. The men on the rigging never looked away from Fermi, waiting for the order to dump the solution.

  None of the scientists noticed Crown and Hess and the returning technician.

  "It goes off when the needle hits the red mark, Hess," Crown whispered.

  "I'm aware of that."

  "We're going to get our asses blown away."

  Hess nodded "The Führer and I went to a lot of difficulty to have that bomb placed there. You don't think I will order it diffused just because I will die with the others, do you?"

  "Maybe. Maybe not."

  Fermi played with a dial on the instrument panel and called for another inch to be pulled out of the pile. Once again, the dial moved closer to the red line, and the ticking increased. The sound was less erratic now and wa
s beginning to dominate the room.

  "You are a dedicated and dangerous man, Crown," Hess said, looking intently at the dial, "but I do not think you want to die today."

  Crown shrugged his shoulders.

  "Does a million dollars mean anything to you, Crown?"

  "We're going to be blown away in a minute, Hess. We won't even know what hit us. It'll ruin our whole day."

  "One million dollars. I could have it to you within twenty-four hours. Think of it."

  The technician was breathing hard, and his forehead was beaded with sweat. He kept glancing at a panel of controls on his left.

  "All you have to do is walk away with me from here right now. You don't have to let me free," Hess said anxiously. "Just walk away."

  "Once again, Jack." Fermi's voice was on edge now. His right hand tapped the table nervously. The needle moved again. It was an inch from the red line. The ticking increased, so that it sounded like radio static. The squash court seemed steamy. "We're just a little away."

  "No one would ever know the difference, Crown. They will all be dead. One million. That's everything you've always wanted."

  Crown heard the tremor in Hess's voice. They were thirty seconds from being vaporized, and all it was was a tremor. Shit. Not enough. The technician might break, though. He looked ill with terror.

  "Look at the needle, Crown. We can make it if we move now. Your whole life depends on the next half-minute," Hess said. There was worry in his voice now. "No more waiting for your government paycheck month after month."

  Fermi was very quiet. "Half an inch more. Be careful, Jack. Get ready up there."

  The scientists leaned forward to watch Jack gingerly pull on the rod. The ticking increased slightly, and the needle climbed higher. No one breathed.

  Hess wiped perspiration from his forehead. "Crown, think. This is our last chance. Let's go." Almost hysteria.

  Crown's face was indifferent, and his feet were firmly planted. He was going nowhere. The technician was swaying, on the verge of fainting.

  "Just a fraction more, Jack. Then we'll have it."

  The needle moved and almost touched the red. Hess panted like a thirsty dog. Five interminable seconds passed.

  "Diffuse it, Schneider." Hess's voice cracked.

  The technician jumped to the side panel. He threw a single switch and gulped air. His knees wavered. Crown and Hess exhaled in unison.

  The needle crossed to the red, and the clicking bounced to a steady hum. Fermi looked up with his radiant smile and yelled, "We've made it, boys. It's self-sustaining. The nuclear age is here."

  The room exploded with applause and backslapping and handshaking. The court filled with the high-pitched laughter that is tension's release. The technicians on the rigging leaned back on their haunches, lowered the buckets, and laughed. Fermi grasped hand after hand. A few of the scientists jumped up and down with joy. Someone produced a bottle of Chianti and passed it around. There were no glasses, and no one cared. One of the scientists pounded out a tattoo on the table, unable to think of a more appropriate way to express his joy. There were cries of "We did it!" and "Beautiful, Enrico, beautiful!" and "Where's more wine?"

  Crown opened the door and said to Hess, "I suppose it's too late for the million dollars?"

  Hess stuffed his damp handkerchief into a rear pocket. "Typical Anglo humor, Crown. Typical."

  Crown pushed the technician through the door. The white-coat had trouble controlling his feet. Hess followed the technician.

  The guard asked, "Enjoy the show, Mr. Crown?"

  "More than you'd know." Crown could not keep the elation out of his voice.

  The sound of the celebration died as the iron door swung shut, and now all they could hear was the clicking of their heels. It sounded like a prison.

  XVIII

  HEATHER WINCED as Crown opened the door, but Everette Smithson's body had been removed. It was a professional job. No blood on the landing or on the rug at the base of the stairs. The banister posts had been repaired, and the scuff marks on the stairs were no longer visible. Crown had not ordered the cleanup. It meant only one thing. The Priest was here.

  "You came back for Miguel Maura's knife, perhaps?"

  Sackville-West emerged from the living room, and Crown took his hand, relieved. The Priest's dignified banker's presence was the official signal that things were under control. When he appeared after a case, it was time to shed the pressure and tension, to reassess and rethink the mission, and perhaps to receive the next assignment. Once again, Sackville-West's traveling to Chicago was unusual, reflecting the enormous stakes of the Hess cross.

  "When did you get here, sir?"

  "An hour or so ago. After our conversation this morning, I decided that a journey to Chicago might be appropriate, thinking we could brainstorm the problem, but it looks like you have things under control here."

  "It was close, but I think so."

  "I've had to do a little cleaning up after you," the Priest said, marking his amusement by lightly stroking his salt-and-pepper mustache. "Quite a little mess in the chapel gallery, if you will remember. Our removal team had never seen anything like it."

  "I was in a place of worship, so I was inspired."

  "Quite. I've also had therapeutic discussions with a shaken organist and a bewildered housekeeper. They are both doing well."

  "How much was in the satchel?" Crown asked.

  "A quarter of a million dollars," Sackville-West answered as he pointed them to chairs in the living room. "Because Smithson headed our Chicago office, the Nazis bought him, thinking he would be in charge of Hess when he was in Chicago. They didn't expect you and Miguel Maura to step in to guard and transport Hess. If Smithson had been overseeing Hess, killing Fermi during one of the interviews would have been easy."

  "So they came after Miguel and me, thinking that once we were dead, Smithson would guard Hess."

  "That's right." Sackville-West could have seconded as a model, with his tailored black pinstripe suit and crisp white shirt. Only the tedious green tweed tie argued against his impeccable taste. "By the way, Miss McMillan, it's nice to see you. I trust that you and John have your little difficulties worked out."

  If this was cultured American humor, Heather didn't appreciate it, but she briefly told him of Smithson's deception and her reason for reporting Crown's locations to him.

  "I can't blame you for that. I would have fallen for it, too, in my younger days. So Hess was bait, John?"

  "That's right. He probably had to learn the scientific data the hard way, by long cramming sessions with Germany's scientists, before he flew to Scotland. It's unlikely he was ever in charge of the German experiments, like he claimed. After his flight, he told the London interrogators enough about the German experiments so he would be shipped to the U. S. to talk to our scientists."

  "Kohler was in on it. What about Professor Ludendorf?"

  "I suspected him when I discovered Kohler was after me. They've been together since Kohler's student days in Germany. Ludendorf even helped Kohler escape to England. But it was Ludendorf who saved Fermi, with his incredible interrogation of von Stihl this afternoon."

  "It's hard to believe von Stihl would tell anyone anything."

  "As you know, he's got a head wound, one that has addled his brain, at least temporarily. He's babbling day and night, and Ludendorf managed to steer his talk to the mission. Von Stihl told the professor about the explosives planted at the experiments just thirty minutes or so before the blast would have gone off. If it hadn't been for Ludendorf, Hess would have succeeded at killing Fermi and the other scientists."

  "Ludendorf must be as good as the British said."

  "We also know why von Stihl and his men came to the U.S. They were the backup plan. Smithson and Hess couldn't kill Fermi at an interrogation, because I was there, so they resorted to explosives. The stormtroopers were sent into the U.S. to blow up the experiments. They were lucky to find a greedy technician."

  "Why the
attack on the navy base?" Sackville-West asked.

  "Well, I think they hijacked the truck simply to get explosives," Crown said. "It was heavy-handed, but it worked. Then they launched that nonsensical assault on the navy station to make us think that's why they hijacked the truck. Perhaps they thought if they blew up the navy buildings, we wouldn't suspect they were going to use the explosives on the experiment."

  "This has been a very costly blunder for the Third Reich. By the way, John, would you kindly stop popping your elbow? Thank you. Not only did the Nazis lose the money they paid Smithson, Kohler, and the technician, they also lost some very competent commandos, plus their deputy führer, with all the embarrassment and bad propaganda resulting from his apparent defection."

  "And more. To keep us interested, Hess had to reveal secrets about the German fission experiments, the most important of which is that they've bogged down."

  "But it was all for nothing. Thank God," Sackville-West breathed. "I would love to see Hitler's tantrum when he hears the Hess cross has been bungled. I understand he can throw a fit like the most talented six-year-old."

  There was laughter, then a pause. Heather reached for Crown's hand in an unnecessary reminder. The gesture was not lost on the Priest, who asked, "Something you want, John?"

  "Now that his mission is blown, Hess won't be revealing any more German fission secrets, so we'll be flying to London with him tonight. I've already notified Wing Commander Stratton, and he assures me his crew and the plane will be ready."

  "So you want some time in London, to sightsee and such, because you know someone who can show you the town." Sackville-West smiled.

  "Something like that."

  "In light of your very successful, if at times somewhat excessive actions on this assignment, that can be arranged. In fact, we have a little business in and around England that may keep you over there for the better part of a year, if you're interested, although I can't imagine why you would be, with all the good restaurants and such closed."

  Heather appreciated the humor this time.

  Sounds like a soft assignment, thought Crown.